


Pucker Up, Buttercup (The Witcher Bride)

by EvanHart



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Jaskier means Buttercup, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Prince!Jaskier, Princess Bride AU, So you can see my train of thought here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: That day, he was amazed to discover that when he was saying "as you wish," what he meant was,"I love you."The Princess Bride AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 126
Kudos: 437





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all started when I realised, thanks to my Polish flatmate, that 'Jaskier' is the Polish word for buttercup. Later, when watching my favourite movie of all time, I remembered that the princess in the Princess Bride is named Buttercup. Last week, by some miracle, I was scrolling through Tumblr and found a gifset referencing the Witcher as The Princess Bride, and thus, this was born - the work that no one asked for but that I haven't been able to get out of my head.
> 
> It should go relatively quickly as well - I hope everyone is staying safe during this pandemic - I'll be using the time to finish up my university work and yes, write this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DISCLAIMER*
> 
> Before we get started, I’d just like to say that I own none of these characters or the work that this AU is based on. The Princess Bride was created by William Goldman and The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski. I do not claim any ownership over them or the books, TV series, movies, or games; nor the world of The Princess Bride or The Witcher. This is purely creative and not for profit.
> 
> Okay, with that out of the way - let’s begin!

Ciri coughs again, the sound grating on her ears until she finishes with a groan, shuffling on her bed to look back at the strategy board in front of her. One of the pieces, the one representing Redania, has been knocked over in her movements. She reaches to set it straight again and takes in the rest of the board. Cintra is in the best position, to no one’s surprise, her protagonist in her imaginary conquest against Nilfgaard, whose territories have rescinded even farther during the jostling. She doesn’t bother to correct it.

The door to her chambers swings open and Ciri looks up through puffy eyes, watching as a maid scurries over to her bedside and hastily removes the chamber pot to dispose of its contents. Behind her, Ciri’s grandmother marches in, wearing a cuirass less suited to a castle and more to a battlefield.

Ciri shrinks back a little. Her grandmother doesn’t scare her, not normally, but right now with a splatter of blood across her torso and face and her eyes hard from the skirmish, she seems more intimidating than usual.

“You feeling any better?” Queen Calanthe asks, sweeping her gaze across the returning maid and landing briefly on the strategy board, before landing on her sick granddaughter.

Ciri jerks her head, moving to the side of her bed a bit so the maid has more room to fluff up the pillows. “A little bit,” comes her response, voice raspier than usual. Calanthe nods once.

“Guess what.” Her voice is stern, solid. Ciri knows this tone, knows that it means the queen is annoyed and won’t currently tolerate any fooling around by attempting to guess random unlikely scenarios. She’d be much better off with Eist.

She decides to go the safest route. “What?”

Calanthe sighs, watching the maid finish her task and then leaning against the side of the bed once the girl runs off to fulfil her other duties, justifiably terrified of irking the queen. “Vesemir is here.”

Ciri groans, slumping further against her pillows and undoing all of the maid’s hard work. “Gran, can’t you tell him that I’m sick?” she whines, not in the mood for his long-winded ‘lessons’.

“You’re sick, that’s why he’s here.” Calanthe rolls her eyes at her granddaughter’s dramatics, though Ciri finds that a bit unfair considering the foul mood the queen is in herself.

“He’ll punch me in the arm,” Ciri gripes. “I hate that.”

“Maybe he won’t.”

Ciri shoots her a look, one that’s cut short as her door slams open with more force than before. For half a second, Ciri entertains the notion that it could be Dara or Mousesack coming to visit her while she’s ill, but those dreams are crushed when Vesemir’s ever-present scowl graces her view.

The silver medallion and cuirass which has seen better days look the same as ever, his grey hair tied back and weather-beaten face the same as she’s always been able to remember. The difference this time, is that instead of the usual sheath or tome clutched in his left hand, ready to impart another boring but essential lesson, there’s a wrapped parcel.

Despite the intrigue she’s gained toward the simply-wrapped package, Ciri’s foul mood returns when he makes his way over to her and gives her arm a punch. She immediately levels an unamused gaze at her grandmother, one that Calanthe mockingly returns.

“How’s the invalid?” Vesemir grunts, pulling over a chair to sit right by the edge of Ciri’s bed.

“I’m not an invalid,” Ciri protests immediately, only to be cut off by Calanthe rising from her perch and making her way to the door.

“I think I’ll leave you two chums,” she grins, flashing a smug look over her shoulder at her granddaughter’s pleading gaze. “After all, uprisings don’t sort themselves out on their own.” 

The door slams closed behind her, leaving an uncomfortable silence that stretches for almost a minute, until –

“I brought you a special present,” Vesemir says, shifting in his seat so he can hold up the parcel. Ciri sits up a little straighter, her curiosity piqued once again.

“What is it?” she asks eagerly, reaching to take it when he hands it to her.

“Open it up,” Vesemir encourages, and she does – he’s always bringing her fun things – like a new dagger or pieces for her strategy boards. She tears off the wrapping, only to find a sheaf of handwritten pages bound together with a leather cover.

She looks up disbelievingly. “A book?”

Vesemir takes the book back from her, lifting it and shaking it in her face. “That’s right,” he starts, a bit of an edge to his voice that Ciri recognises as one not to contradict. “When I was your age, I had to read books. And this is a special book, written by a friend of mine. He told it to me, and to your father, and today I’m going to read it to you.”

Ciri settles in against her pillows again, arms crossed grumpily, but she’s been raised by the Lioness of Cintra. She knows warfare, and knows a losing battle when she sees one. Despite that, she tries her luck one last time.

“Has it got any fighting in it?”

Eyebrow raised, and sensing that he’s won this round so far, Vesemir leans forward again in his chair. “Are you kidding?” His eyes gleam a bit. “Sword fighting. Torture. Revenge. Witches. Monsters. Chases. Escapes. True love. Magic.”

A bit more interested, but trying not to let it show, Ciri shrugs. “It doesn’t sound too bad. I’ll try and stay awake.” She does her best to retain the aloof appearance of royalty.

Vesemir doesn’t buy it, but then again, he never does. Nonetheless, he sits back and shakes his head. “Oh, well, thank you very much. It’s nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.” The sarcasm practically drips from his voice, and Ciri shoots him an annoyed look. Luckily, this time he seems to get the message and opens the book on his lap. “All right. The Prince Bridegroom. By J.A. Pankratz. Chapter One. Jaskier was raised on a small farm in the kingdom of Nilfgaard.”

It’s very visual, the imagery of this farm. Ciri can almost see it. It’s small, Eist would graciously call it quaint, and there’s a narrow river running through the fields in the distance. Across them, a horse gallops, carrying a young man - probably in his late teens - towards the farmhouse.

“His favourite pastimes,” Vesemir continued to narrate, “were playing his lute, riding his horse, and tormenting the farmhand that worked there. His name was Geralt, but he never called him that.” The old man looks at the young princess. “Isn’t that a wonderful beginning?” His eyes flash as if to challenge her to say otherwise.

Ciri gives him a half-hearted smile that ends up more like a grimace. “Yeah. It’s really good.” Her voice lacks any sort of luster, but Vesemir ignores it and continues reading.

“Nothing gave Jaskier as much pleasure as ordering Geralt around.”

Jaskier stands, holding the reins of his horse and detaching his precious lute from the saddle, cradling it as he notices the farmhand standing in the doorway, watching her. He sniffs, once, then holds it out to him.

“Farmhand,” Jaskier calls, holding out the instrument. “Polish my lute. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

Geralt steps forward and takes the lute, still watching him. “As you wish.”

Jaskier holds his gaze a moment longer, something flipping strangely in his stomach as he stares into those golden eyes before blinking and turning away.

“As you wish,” Vesemir reads, “is all he ever said to him.”

Geralt is chopping wood. Ciri can almost hear it, so similar to what she’s seen the lumbermen do when she plays in the forest with Dara.

Jaskier walks over, dropping two buckets next to the stump. Geralt looks up slowly.

“Farmhand, fill these with water,” Jaskier orders, then hesitates. “Please.”

Geralt inclines his head a little. “As you wish.”

A little shaken, with that strange flipping feeling in his stomach again, Jaskier turns and leaves. Still, though, he feels those eyes on him. He turns back, only to be caught with the full force of Geralt’s stare. They stand like that for a minute more, the flipping morphing into soaring, before again, Jaskier averts his gaze and turns away. Geralt’s eyes follow him all the way to the farmhouse.

“That day,” Vesemir briefly locks eyes with Ciri, who’s trying her best to pay attention, before flitting back to the words in front of him. “That day, he was amazed to discover that when he was saying “as you wish,” what he meant was, “I love you.”

Jaskier is in the farmhouse this time, chopping vegetables for a meal that Ciri imagines smells just like the one the cook makes for her on her birthday. Warm, earthy, with a little bit of spice. Geralt enters the building, firewood piled in his arms, and Jaskier whips around to look at him.

“And even more amazing was the day he realised he truly loved him back.”

Jaskier watches as Geralt turns to leave, suddenly desperate for him to stay. “Farmhand,” he calls, and Geralt turns. Now, though, Jaskier is for once at a loss for words. He casts his eyes around in order to find something, an excuse for Geralt to stay. “Fetch me that pitcher,” he says quickly, and immediately curses himself for being an idiot. The pitcher is right in front of him, he could literally get it himself, he didn’t need to –

To his surprise, though, Geralt steps forward and grabs the pitcher, handing it to him but not releasing it quite yet. He shuffles a little closer and Jaskier’s breath catches.

“As you wish.” 

This time, they stand that way for even longer before slowly Geralt turns to leave. Jaskier, again, finds himself wishing he wouldn’t.

As Vesemir describes the next scene, one which finds Jaskier and Geralt now kissing – something adults seem to irrationally enjoy, Ciri might add – she has to stop him. A slow build-up is one thing, but this is a step too far.

“Hold it, hold it,” she interjects, pointing at accusatory finger at the gruff man. “What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where’s the fighting?” She drops her hand, eyes going wide and nose scrunching as an unsavoury thought pops into her head. “Is this a kissing book?”

“Wait, just wait –“ Vesemir starts, trying to placate her, but Ciri isn’t having it.

“Well, when does it get good?” She demands, trying to look like the lion cub of Cintra that she’s supposed to be.

“Keep your shirt on and let me read,” Vesemir growls, eyeing her into complacency before he continues. “Geralt had no coin for marriage. So, he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the continent.” He turns the page. “It was a very emotional time for Jaskier.”

Ciri huffs and flops down again. “I don’t believe this.”

Locked in embrace by the edge of Geralt’s hut, Jaskier is reluctant to let the man in his arms go, lest he never return back to them. “I fear I’ll never see you again,” he admits, tightening his grip.

“Of course you will.” Geralt’s voice is low and calm, but he too pulls Jaskier in closer.

“But what if something happens to you?”

“Hear this now: I will come for you.”

“But how can you be sure?”

Geralt leans back a little bit, wanting to look the smaller man in the eyes. “What do you always say this is?”

Jaskier sniffles, wiping his nose. “True love.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and though the next words come out a little strained, it is with no less feeling behind them. “You think this happens every day?” He grins a little, the soft, happy one that only comes out when he’s around Jaskier.

Jaskier can’t help but smile back, pushing up on his toes a bit and pulling Geralt back in before kissing him senseless. If this is to be the last one for a while, he’s going to make damn sure the giant oaf remembers it.

“Geralt didn’t reach his destination.” Ciri perks up slightly, hearing the change in Vesemir’s voice and hoping that something exciting is finally about to happen. “His envoy was attacked by the Butcher of Blaviken and his bandits, who never left captives alive. When Jaskier got the news that Geralt was murdered –“

“Murdered by bandits is good,” Ciri enthuses, hardly quailing from the exasperated look Vesemir aims her way this time. 

“Jaskier went into his room and shut the door,” he continues. “And for days, he neither slept nor ate.”

He’s staring out the window, the one that he used to watch Geralt work through, filled with so much happiness. Now, though, his gaze is blank and there’s an empty void where his emotions used to be. Jaskier will keep them under lock and key, he decides. 

“I will never love again.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Five years later,” Vesemir reads, and this time Ciri is actually paying attention. “The main square of the city of Nilfgaard was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Princess Fringilla’s bridegroom-to-be.”

The Princess Fringilla stands on the balcony, overlooking the crowd with a hint of distaste playing on her face, though she’s too high up for the people below to notice. 

“Let’s get this over with quickly, shall we?” she mutters, glancing over at her uncle Artorius – the old king – but directing the words to the man at her side.

Stregobor steps forward, his eyes shrewd as he bows slightly. “Of course, your highness.”

Fringilla raises her hands, waiting for there to be silence in the square. Once she has the full attention of the assembled crowd, she lowers her hands again. “My people…” she trails off, before continuing. “My people, a month from now, our great country will have its five hundredth year anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a gentleman who was once a commoner like yourselves.” She pauses. “But perhaps you will not find him common now. Would you like to meet him?”

The crowd roars its approval, and Fringilla shakes her head a little in disgust. 

“They are like a flock of sheep, highness,” Stregobor says from beside her. “You just have to lead them the way you want.”

Fringilla steels her gaze and nods once, sharply. “I will.” Her eyes turn to the archway at the edge of the square, where trumpets ring out and a figure starts to walk down the stairs.

Clad in a resplendent white doublet, with a train trailing behind him, Jaskier has never felt so uncomfortable. His fingers twitch as he swallows nervously, itching for his lute. He’s never had nearly this much attention on him, even while performing in inns and taverns.

“My people,” Fringilla says again. “The Prince Jaskier!”

Around him, the people start to kneel, starting with the ones directly in front. The action makes him blink back tears and he looks up, partially in an effort to hold them back but also to see his betrothed, high on the balcony above. She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Jaskier’s emptiness consumed him.” Vesemir turns a page, and in his distraction, Ciri shuffles a little closer. Can’t be admitting that she’s interested yet. “Although the law of the land gave Fringilla the right to choose her bridegroom, he did not love her.” He glances at Ciri and continues. “Despite Stregobor’s reassurances that he and Fringilla would grow to love each other, the only joy he found was in his daily ride.”

The trees fly past as Jaskier rides, spurring his horse onwards as he tries to forget the city of Nilfgaard and everything in it, at least for a while. In a few hours, he’ll be expected back for the evening meal. Still, that leaves him enough time to reach the banks of the river Alba, and just a little upstream past a small dock is the little glen he’d discovered a few weeks ago. It’s secluded, and quiet, and the perfect place to sit and play his lute for a while. Speaking of… he glances back and calms again once he sees the instrument still safely attached to his saddlebags. 

The sun has just barely started to dip behind the tops of the trees when he reaches the dock that signifies only a mile to go until he reaches his special glen, only this time, he sees three figures standing near it and a boat tied up. Confused, Jaskier reins in his horse and stops a few feet away from the nearest figure, a man dressed in all black with a cruel twist to his mouth.

“A word, my lord?” the man asks, and Jaskier nods, sparing a quick glance at the man’s two companions. Both women, one similar to the man in her-all black dress and cloak, and the other in a deep red and green, a sword strapped to one hip and a dagger to the other. People to be wary of, Jaskier thinks, but they’re not outright attacking him so he’s not too concerned yet.

“We are but poor, lost, fete performers,” the man says, and Jaskier raises his eyebrows. The darker woman’s dress looks very fine, but then he realises he’s not one to judge. His own scarlet doublet and trousers are made from the most expensive silk, but without Fringilla he has not a penny to his name. “Is there a village nearby?”

Jaskier frowns a little, thinking. “No,” he responds eventually, remembering the last village he passed well over an hour ago. “You had better take your ship further up river. There is nothing nearby, not for miles.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”

Startling back a little, Jaskier sees the man nod at the darker woman and tries to get his horse moving, opening his mouth to scream before the woman raises her hand and makes a complicated motion. It’s the last thing he sees before everything fades to black.

________________________________________________________________________________

It’s dusk now, and long shadows play along the edge of the river as Yennefer levitates the unconscious man on board. Renfri glances over, busy with preparing the boat to sail away from the dock. They’re the only ones on the boat so far, Cahir is still on land, fiddling with something next to the prince’s horse. Yennefer looks over when she hears a tearing noise.

“What’s that you’re ripping?” she asks, purple eyes bright and intrigued. Cahir doesn’t stop or turn to face her.

“It’s fabric,” he explains shortly.

“I can tell,” Yennefer snaps back. “What kind of fabric?”

“The kind from the uniform of an army officer of Cintra.”

At that, Renfri looks up. “Cintra?”

Cahir points down the river, towards the sea. “Cintra. Further down the coast. The sworn enemy of Nilfgaard. Go!” He slaps the horse’s rump, the fabric now tightly secured through the strings on the prince’s lute. “Ringing any bells?” He turns back and stalks towards the boat, climbing onto the dock and bracing his hands on a pole. He seems ready to launch into a tirade again.

Renfri and Yennefer glance at each other, choosing not to answer. Instead, the witch goes to sit on the bench next to where the prince is lying, still knocked out. She leans back, reclining as if she owns the sailboat. 

“Once the horse reaches the castle,” Cahir continues, as if he still has a captive audience. “The fabric will make the Princess suspect that the Cintrans have abducted her love. When she finds his body dead on the Cintra frontier, her suspicions will be totally confirmed.”

Renfri whips around to face him. “You never said anything about killing anyone.” Her voice is low, accusatory. Yennefer sits up straighter, watching as Cahir unties the last rope from the dock and jumps into the boat.

“I’ve hired you to help start a war.” He tosses the now coiled rope onto the deck. “That’s a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition.”

Hands on her hips, Renfri walks towards him, sword swinging dangerously in its sheath. “I just don’t think it’s right, killing an innocent boy.”

Yennefer snorts. “That’s ironic of you.” Renfri shoots her a dark look and places her hand on the hilt of her dagger, but before she can do anything Cahir has rounded on the swordswoman.

“Am I going mad?” he starts, quietly, ominously. “Or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips?” He’s closer now, eyes flashing and spittle flying at he hisses out the words. “You were not hired for your brains, you kleptomaniac flesh-monger!”

Yennefer settles back down on her bench, foot swinging just a hair’s breadth away from the prince’s head. “I agree with Renfri.” 

She watches as Cahir stiffens, then turns away from Renfri who’s admirably stood her ground this entire time. “Oh, the sot has spoken,” he declares, words dripping with malice. “What happens to him is not truly your concern – I will kill him – and remember this, never forget this.” His voice has dropped another octave, though it’s no less powerful than before. “When I found you –“ he jabs a finger at Yennefer, something a lesser man would have already dropped dead for, “- you were so slobbering drunk you couldn’t buy brandy!”

He whirls back around, and Renfri sets her jaw.

“And you! Friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless – do you want me to send you back to where you were, starving, in Redania?” He glares at them both, then turns and stalks to the front of the ship, kicking the prince’s ribs as he passes. 

Yennefer stands, gracefully stepping around the prone form of the boy and dusting off her skirts as she heads over to Renfri, whose jaw is still clenched, her fingers just as tight on the hilt of her dagger. Her sword, thankfully, remains untouched – though Yennefer knows she’s just as deadly without it.

The sun has well and truly started to set now, just half of it still peeks over the horizon as the purple-eyed mage twists her hand in a complicated gesture that starts the boat on its course, sailing softly down the waters of the Alba and towards the nearby coast.

“That Cahir,” she muses, and Renfri turns to look at her. “He can really… _fuss_.” There’s an emphasis on the last word, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the younger woman. Her eyes light up slightly.

“Fuss… fuss…” Renfri repeats, thinking. Her smile widens. “I think he likes to rant at _us_.”

Yennefer grins back. “He probably means no _harm_.”

“He’s really very short on _charm_.”

Yen laughs delightedly. “Oh, we should have kept the boy’s lute for you,” she teases. “You’ve a great gift for rhyme.”

Renfri chuckles. “Yes, some of the time.”

From the front of the boat, Cahir whirls on them, his mouth set in a scowl. Though, that’s really not saying much, Renfri admits, seeing as that’s his normal expression. “Enough of that,” he snaps.

Yennefer just grins wider. “Renfri, do you see rocks ahead?”

“If there are, we’ll all be dead!”

Jumping from the platform at the front, Cahir stalks down the deck of the boat towards them. “No more rhymes now, I mean it.” His voice brooks no argument, but Renfri, enjoying herself too much, can’t help but try one more.

“Anybody want a peanut?”

Cahir’s angered shout echoes through the darkening twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this, but I got too excited. Hopefully I'll get the others done just as quickly!
> 
> Anyways, I fudging the lines of who-says-what depending on Inigo/Renfri and Fezzik/Yennefer, because they're two of my favourite ladies and I want them to be as accurate to the series as possible!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the middle of the night, the waters relatively calm around them as Renfri sits at the helm, steering the boat a safe distance away from the shoreline, though following it, for now. She glances over at the prince, who doesn’t move other than a flicker of his eyelids. Even so, Renfri can tell that he’s awoken, but decides not to do anything about it quite yet. Better to let him stay quiet and avoid the situation as long as he can.

“We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn,” Cahir says, gaze leveled at Renfri as she steers. It’s not a request, but none of them ever are. She nods in assent, then looks behind her out into the water.

Cahir narrows his eyes. “Why are you doing that?”

Renfri turns back quickly. “Making sure nobody is following us.”

Sitting back, Cahir grunts. “That would be inconceivable.”

“Despite what you think,” comes a new voice, lilting and musical. It’s the first time Renfri’s really heard it, too busy scanning the perimeter for danger while Cahir and Yennefer were taking him captive. “You will be caught,” the prince continues, sitting up and tugging at the sleeves if his doublet to check if they’re even. “And when you are, the princess will see you all hanged.”

Cahir turns a cold eye on the prince. “Of all the necks on this boat, Highness, the one you should be worrying about is your own.” He goes to relax again, but Renfri is staring behind them once more. “Stop doing that! We can all relax, it’s almost over -“

“You’re sure nobody’s following us?” Renfri interjects, her eyes still scanning the waters. From the far side of the boat, Yennefer looks up, no longer disinterested in the conversation.

“As I told you,” Cahir starts, and his voice is dangerously low again. “It would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways, inconceivable. No one in Cintra knows what we’ve done, and no one in Nilfgaard could have gotten here so fast.” He sits back, then thinks better of it, turning back to Renfri, assessing. “Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

“No reason,” the woman responds, then hesitates for a second. “It’s only, I just happened to look behind us, and something is there.”

Both Cahir and Yennefer jump to their feet. “What?” They rush over to the helm, and Renfri catches the prince looking over, intrigued, before they all turn around to face the water and the other boat that’s still quite a way behind them. It’s black, and only visible when the moon is peeking through the clouds, hence why they none of them had initially noticed it.

“Probably some local fisherman,” Cahir decides, and the two women look at him incredulously.

Yennefer crosses her arms. “What, out for a pleasure cruise?”

“At night?” Renfri adds.

“Through drowner-infested waters?”

Cahir opens his mouth to retort, face already drawn back into a scowl, when a splash from the side of the boat cuts him off and the trio whirl around. For a moment, they stand and stare at the prince who’s dived overboard and is currently swimming away from the boat.

The pause doesn’t last for long, though. “Go in, go after him!” Cahir screams, facing Yennefer.

She shakes her head. “I don’t swim.”

He turns to Renfri, who shrugs. “I only paddle.”

Cahir throws his hand up, before rushing to the side of the boat. “Veer left!” he shouts, motioning for Renfri to steer. She rolls her eyes and settles back at the helm. “Left! Left!”

Jaskier hates the cold, has always hated it, and right now the water is the most freezing thing he’s ever felt. His teeth are chattering and the wind is whipping through his wet hair, making him shiver even as he kicks towards the shore. It’s not too far away, only a mile at most. He’s just stretching his left arm forward for another stroke when a high-pitched shrieking sound rings out. He stops, paddling to stay afloat as fear colder than the water douses over him. Something brushes his leg.

“Do you know what sound that is, Highness?” he hears, and turns slightly, eyes still frantically looking around himself. It’s his male captor, the one who seems to be in charge of the operation. “Those are the Drowners,” the man continues, and Jaskier barely hears him over the blood rushing in his ears. “If you doubt me, just wait. They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh.”

Kicking out, Jaskier tries to shift towards the boat and swim back to it. Personally, he’d rather deal with kidnappers and would-be murderers than whatever is brushing past his foot again, shrieking louder than before. He stops, but resolutely does _not_ whimper.

“If you swim back now, I promise, no harm will come to you.” His captor is speaking again. “I doubt you will get such an offer from the drowners.”

It’s a tempting offer, and right now, as Jaskier sees a pale fin cut through the water ahead of him, it’s the best one he’s going to get. He kicks back, trying to put some distance between him and the… whatever it is in front of him, but he’s barely made it a yard before the monster raises its ugly, sickening head and starts to rush him. This time, Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to rein in his fear and opens his mouth to scream.

___________________________________________________________________________

“He doesn’t get eaten by the drowners at this time.”

Ciri blinks, and realises that she’s gripping the sheets harder than she thought. “What?”

“The drowner doesn’t get him,” Vesemir repeats, lowering the book so he can look at her. “I’m explaining it to you because you looked nervous.”

Ciri unclenches her hands, letting the fistfuls she had fall back to join the rest of the bedcovers. “Well, I wasn’t nervous.” She juts her chin out stubbornly.

Vesemir says nothing, just waits.

“Well, maybe I was a little bit concerned. But that’s not the same thing,” she insists.

“Because I can stop now, if you want.” Vesemir raises his eyebrows, waiting for her response.

Ciri takes her sheets back into her hands. “No,” she decides, setting her jaw the way she’s seen her grandmother do when she’s determined. “You can read a little bit more, if you want.”

Picking the book back up, the gruff man continues to narrate. “Do you know what that sound is, Highness? Those are the Drowners.”

“We’re past that, Vesemir,” Ciri cuts him off, only to receive an unamused glare. She fidgets, but doesn’t back down. “You read it already.”

“Hm,” Vesemir grunts. “Well, I suppose I did. Sorry. Beg your pardon.”

She rolls her eyes at the blatant sarcasm.

He turns back to the book, skimming over the writing. “All right, all right, let’s see… hm, he was in the water, the drowner was coming after him. He was frightened, the drowner started to charge him. And then –“

___________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier gasps as the head of the monster comes only about a foot away from his own, only to be bashed by some sort of projectile. He’s staring but it’s cut short as he feels himself being bodily lifted out of the water, though not by any human hands. It feels like he’s floating, and yes, sure enough, the woman with the dark hair and purple eyes is a witch, levitating him back into the boat.

He’s deposited, not gently, but not altogether harshly either, back onto the deck of the boat, and immediately the man rushes over, and starts binding his hands together. Jaskier, still shivering from the cold and subsequent shock, does little to prevent him and allows himself to be bound.

There’s a shout, from the helm. The other woman, the one who looks sweet but feels dangerous, is pointing behind them. “I think he’s getting closer!” she calls, causing the other woman to rush to her side and look for herself, leaving Jaskier shivering in a growing puddle from his soaked clothes with the man tying his wrists.

“He’s no concern of ours, sail on!” the man barks, looking up at Jaskier’s face as he finishes tying the final knot. “I suppose you think you’re brave, don’t you?”

Jaskier looks at him, this shrewd man who lets two hired women do most of the work instead of him. After that drowner charging him, he’s not so scared anymore.

“Only compared to some.” 

The man scowls, but stands and walks away. Jaskier is left alone, watching the dark night slowly get diluted by the bright first tendrils of the dawn.

Watching the sky as he is, time slips away and it feels like mere minutes before he hears the swordswoman shout again, though it’s likely been a few hours. He glances up and sees the black boat from earlier that night, being steered by a solitary figure, wearing only the same shade as his boat.

“Look!” Renfri shouts, drawing all three of the boat’s inhabitants’ attention. “He’s right on top of us!” She gazes at their mast, eyes curious. “I wonder if he is using the same wind we are using.”

“Whoever he is, he’s too late!” Cahir yells triumphantly, pointing ahead of them. “See?” He seems overly thrilled to be faced with a sheer face of rock, Jaskier thinks. “The Cliffs of Insanity!”

It’s a race, now, between the two boats. Despite his innate curiosity towards the man in the black boat and who he is, Jaskier knows that the one he’s in will reach the land first, as is his lot in life. It will be close, though.

In the middle of the deck, Cahir is growing agitated, pacing and shouting. “Hurry up!” he orders, waving his hands at Renfri. “Move the thing! Um, that other thing! Move it!”

Renfri shoots Yennefer an annoyed glance, but nevertheless sails to the edge of the shoreline, parking there and hurrying to follow the witch out with the other two.

“We’re safe,” Cahir exclaims, holding the prince’s binds. “Only Yennefer is powerful enough to lift us up our way. He’ll have to sail around for hours ‘til he finds a harbour.” Having said his piece, he drags the prince forwards, straight to the bottom of a cliff where a rope hanging from the very top of the rocks.

For a moment, Jaskier is confused, simply letting his captors strap him into some sort of harness that connects them all together. Surely, they can’t mean for the purple-eyed woman, Yennefer, to carry them all up?

His confusion is short lived, however, as Yennefer grabs the rope with both hands and starts to climb, sparks dancing along her fingers as she carries the rest of them up with her, strapped to her in the harness.

Jaskier glances down, and wishes he hadn’t, but when his vision clears, he can make out the other boat coming up alongside their abandoned one, the man in black jumping out and grabbing the end of the rope. As much as he’d like to keep watching, the increasing height and swaying of the rope is making his vertigo worse. It’s futile hope, anyways. They have far too much of a head start.

Renfri looks down the way the prince just had, and gets the shock of her life. “He’s climbing the rope,” she says quietly, incredulously. “And he’s gaining on us!”

Cahir stares for a second, muttering under his breath. “Inconceivable!” Quickly, he turns back and prods Yennefer, who nods and increases her pace, her face strained.

Slowly but surely, the man in black starts to catch up.

“Faster!” Cahir shrieks, sounding not unlike the drowners they had encountered during the night.

Yennefer huffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder and maintaining her pace. “I thought I was going faster.”

“You were supposed to be this marvel,” Cahir starts, glaring at the mage. “You were this great, legendary thing. And yet he gains.”

“Well,” Yennefer tries. “I’m carrying three people. And he’s only got himself.”

“I do not accept excuses,” her employer cuts her off before she can say anything else. “I’m just going to have to find myself a new witch, that’s all.”

Purple eyes roll. “What a pity.”

The man in black has gained more on them in the meantime, Yennefer’s comment about him only carrying only himself proving accurate. Renfri is still watching him, in awe, but Cahir seems more and more like he’s about to burst. 

“Did I make it clear that your job is at stake?” The shout is shrill, and even with the wind at this height Renfri imagines even the man in black could have heard it. 

He’s still gaining, but just as Renfri is about to voice her concern Yennefer drags them over the edge of the cliff face, pulling them onto solid ground. No sooner than he’s free of the harness Cahir rushes to the rock the rope was fastened and hacks it through with a small knife. The rope, now loose, slithers to the edge of the cliff and disappears down the side, presumably taking their pursuer with it.

“Well,” Renfri starts, helping the prince out of his section of the harness and dusting him off. “That’s that.”


	4. Chapter 4

Yennefer wanders over to the edge of the cliff to look down and gapes, shooting Renfri a look of utter confusion. The other woman frowns, but goes over with the prince trailing awkwardly behind her.

“He’s got very good arms,” Yennefer admits after a few moments of stunned silence, all three of them staring down at the man in black who’s clinging to the cliffside, maybe thirty or forty yards from the top. At the witch’s words, Cahir rushes over to see for himself.

“He didn’t fall?” he asks no one in particular. “Inconceivable.”

Renfri turns to look at the man, frown still present. “You keep using that word,” she says. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Cahir opens his mouth to continue, but two gasps cut him off.

“Sweet Melitele,” the prince breathes.

“Goddess,” Yennefer exclaims at the same time. “He’s climbing.”

And so he is. Very slowly, the man in black is picking his way upwards, sometimes a foot at a time, sometimes an inch. He glances upwards and sees them all staring, but resolutely continues his snail’s crawl of a pace up the face of the cliff, seemingly no concern towards the sheer drop that waits for him at any moment.

Cahir swallows. “Whoever he is, he’s obviously seen us with the Prince and must therefore die.” He turns to Yennefer. “You, take him. You.” This one is addressed to Renfri. “We’ll head straight for the Cintran frontier. Catch up when he’s dead. If he falls, fine, if not, the sword.”

Renfri nods, sparing the man climbing one last glance before following the others away from the edge. Suddenly, a thought hits her.

“I want to duel him left-handed,” she declares, making Cahir groan in frustration.

“You know what a hurry we’re in!”

“Well, it’s the only way I can be satisfied,” she retorts, shrugging. “If I use my right – over too quickly.”

Cahir throws his hands up and starts clambering over the stones scattered amongst the ruins. “Oh, have it your way,” he yells back.

Renfri turns, heading towards the cliff to look back down. Before she can, she’s tapped on the shoulder and looks up, Yennefer standing a foot away, holding the bindings of the prince. She spares him a glance – his bright blue eyes look resigned – before focusing on Yennefer.

“You be careful,” the mage urges. “People in masks cannot be trusted.”

Renfri raises her eyebrows. She knows for a fact that she’s seen the other woman wear a mask before.

“I’m waiting!” rings across the ruins, and both women roll their eyes while the prince huffs.

Before going, Yennefer gives Renfri a sharp nod which she returns, watching as the two hurry away to appease their impatient leader. It takes a moment until they’re out of sight, the prince stumbling over the uneven terrain once or twice. Even Yennefer bunches up her skirt so she doesn’t trip. One last flash of dark hair and a red doublet – and they’re gone.

There’s nothing to do but wait now, and though Renfri mocks Cahir for his impatience, she knows she’s much the same. Pacing, she draws her sword and gives it an experimental swing, testing its balance and feeling the familiar grip in her hand again. She nods to herself, sharply, before sheathing the blade and going to check how her opponent is doing on his climb.

He’s closer, that much is true, but he’s still about thirty yards from the top. Renfri huffs, turning away before whirling back around. She doesn’t like sitting around and doing nothing.

“Hello there!” she calls, ignoring the fact that the man could fall to his death at any moment. She’s learned that beginning any conversation with irrelevant negativity doesn’t help much. In reality, though, she never really heeded that little bit of information.

The man glances up, grunts once.

Really, now. Even clinging to a sheer face of rock for his life, there’s no need to be antisocial.

She tries again. “Slow going?”

“This isn’t as easy as it looks,” the man in black says, and his voice is deep, but rougher than she was expecting. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me.”

Renfri winces, properly chastised. “Sorry.” The man grunts again in response.

She steps away, drawing her sword before sheathing it and turning eagerly back to the edge. “I don’t suppose you could speed things up?”

The man in black takes a moment to reply, moving his left foot up to a new perch. “If you’re in such a hurry,” he growls. “You could lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something otherwise useful to do.”

Renfri glances around her, and spots the remainder of the rope that Cahir had sawed off. There’s a good forty yards left, enough to keep it anchored but still have it reach the man below.

“I could do that,” she concedes, reaching, then hesitates. “But I don’t think that you’ll accept my help, since I’m only waiting around to kill.”

“Hm.” The man doesn’t seem that phased, just reaches and finds another hold a few inches higher, making it possible to shift up about half a yard more. It’s definitely an improvement, but still not enough for Renfri’s liking.

“But,” she starts, causing the man to pause his movements and look back up at her. “I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top.”

The man hums again. “Very comforting,” he snarks. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“I hate waiting,” Renfri gripes, turning away again when another idea hits her. “I could give you my word as a noblewoman!”

Grappling for a new grip, the man’s voice is strained when he next speaks. “No good. I’ve known too many noblewomen.”

Renfri thinks. “You don’t know any way you’ll trust me?”

Another hum, this one a definite ‘no’.

“I swear on the soul of my mother that you will reach the top alive.” The words escape her before she can think them through, but decides to stick by them, setting her jaw. The man in black seems to be just as surprised as she is.

He’s silent a moment, considering her promise, then nods once. “Throw the rope.”

A bit more of a spring in her step, Renfri dashes to the giant rock the rope was originally tied to and uncoils a section, by her estimates enough to reach the man. She bounds back to the edge and tosses it over.

Grabbing it, the man hoists himself up, reaching the top in no time and clambering over the edge. Renfri steps back to give him some space, then balks as he rises, hand going straight for his sword.

“Thank you,” he says, starting to pull the blade out.

Renfri flaps her hands at him. “No, no no no. We’ll wait until you’re ready.” She settles down on a smooth rock away from the edge.

Though she can’t see all of his face, the man in black looks surprised by her offer, but nonetheless resheathes his sword and drops onto a rock a few yards away from her own. “Hm. Thank you.”

She watches as he slowly pulls off one of his boots – black, like the rest of his attire – and shakes out several large pebbles from inside it. Pulling it back on, he does the same to the other. Renfri follows his movements, her eyes catching on the gloves he wears and staying there.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she starts, sitting forward and trying to follow the path of his left hand with her eyes. It’s hard, since the black blends into the rest of him. “But you don’t by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

The man in black looks up, clearly baffled, and Renfri gets it. It’s not the usual question people get asked upon their first encounter with a stranger. Obligingly, though, the man raises his hand and Renfri calms internally, leaning back hen she sees the appropriate five digits without an extra one.

“Do you always begin conversations this way?” the man asks, settling back on his own rock.

Renfri snorts, but quickly becomes serious, twining her fingers together as the bitter memories return.

“My mother was slaughtered by a six-fingered man,” she explains, reaching subconsciously for the brooch attached to her jerkin. “She was a great woman, my mother. Collected a number of great artefacts. And when a six-fingered man appeared and requested for her to find a special sword, she took the job. Castle life was always too dull for her, and she searched a year before she found it.”

She unsheathes her sword, taking in it’s familiar shape before handing it to the man in black. Cautiously, as if expecting a trap, he takes it and gives it a once-over with an experienced eye. Quickly though, his caution morphs into admiration.

“I’ve never seen its equal.” He sounds impressed. And hands it back to Renfri, who stands to sheath it.

“The six-fingered man returned and demanded it, but at one-tenth his promised price,” Renfri continues, hand settled on the hilt. “My mother refused. Without a word, the six-fingered man attacked. He chased us into the woods around our home.” Her voice cracks and she pauses, swallowing. “He slashed my mother through the heart. I loved my mother, so, naturally, I challenged her murderer to a duel.” She inhales slowly. “I failed.”

The man in black is watching her, expression unreadable. He’s not tried to interject yet, though, and for that she’s thankful.

“The six-fingered man left me alive,” she goes on, then points at her cheeks. “But he gave me these.” She trails down the edge of the scars, thin and slightly raised, but fully healed over.

“How old were you?” the man asks. Renfri looks down.

“I was eleven years old,” she responds after a few heartbeats of silence. “When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of swordfighting. So, the next time we meet, I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered man and say – “ she raises her head, full of practised determination. “Hello. My name is Renfri of Creyden. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

The man in black nods once, as if in approval. “You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?”

“More pursuit than study, lately,” Renfri admits, shrugging. “You see, I cannot find him. It’s been twelve years now, and I’m starting to lose confidence. I just work for Cahir to pay the bills – there’s not a lot of money in revenge.”

“Well,” the man starts, clapping her on the shoulder as he rises to his feet. “I certainly hope you find him someday.”

Renfri shuffles a little, eager to begin. “You’re ready, then?”

The man grunts, rolling his shoulders. “Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

“You seem a decent fellow,” Renfri quips, unsheathing her sword again. “I hate to kill you.”

Walking several paces away, the man in black draws his own blade and sends her a smirk. “You seem a decent lady. I hate to die.” 

He tosses his sword from hand to hand, gripping it still and tightly in his left, which makes Renfri smirk. He catches her eye one last time.

“If we cross blades – “

Renfri’s already moving forward, sword balanced against her right forearm. “I won’t be able to stop,” she finishes for him, and lunges.  
It’s hard to tell which is the better swordsman – or woman – at first. They seem evenly matched, two athletes who seem to far away to damage each other, but each time one makes even the tiniest feint the other counters, before silence falls and they start to circle.

It’s just a tease, to begin with, each one feinting to either side before their blades clash in earnest, the sound of steel colliding echoing amongst the ruins. Their swords cross, then again, again, and the sound starts coming so fast it’s almost continual. Renfri presses up, the man in black forced to retreat slightly up a rocky incline.

“You’re using Coen’s defense against me, huh?” she shouts, and even to her, her voice sounds thrilled.

“I thought it fitting,” the man in black responds, parrying another of her thrusts. “Considering the rocky terrain.”

Her instinct is to nod, but she can’t afford to lose even a little bit of focus. “Naturally,” she agrees. “You must expect me to attack with Eskel.” She shifts her stance a little, swinging in the mentioned style.

The man in black grunts, teeth bared slightly as he bears the brunt of the attack. “Naturally.” He blocks, taking another step back on the piece of ruin. “But I find Lambert cancels out Eskel, don’t you?” 

Despite his words, he’s perched at the edge of the elevated castle ruin. With nowhere to go, he jumps to the sand beneath. Renfri stares down at him, tightening her grip.

“Unless the enemy has studied her Letho.” She kicks off from the edge jumping and twisting so that she lands facing him. Her head quirks to the side, a grin playing along her lips. “Which I have.”

The two of them are almost flying across the rocky terrain, never losing balance, never coming close to stumbling. The battle rages with incredible finesse and a fair amount of power in each blow – first one, and then the other gaining the advantage. By now, though, it’s clear who’s the better swordsman, Renfri already pushed up a flight of stairs onto part of the old ramparts, being pushed closer and closer to the edge of the cliff with every swing of the man in black’s sword.

“You are wonderful!” she comments, her good humour still intact with the knowledge of the ace up her sleeve.

The man inclines his head, just slightly. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard to become so.”

Renfri is closer to the edge than she’d like to be, now. “I admit it. You’re better than I am.”

The man pushes her back an inch more, eyes slit not only in concentration, but confusion as well. “Then why are you smiling?”

Inches from defeat, Renfri is, in fact, all smiles.

“Because,” she grins. “I know something you don’t know.”

The man frowns. “And what is that?”

“I am not left-handed.”

She throws the sword into her right hand, and almost immediately, the tide of the battle turns.

Stunned, the man in black is doing everything he can to keep Renfri by the cliff edge, but it’s no use. Slowly, at first, he begins to retreat. Now, faster, Renfri is in control and the man in black is desperate. He’s forced back farther than she had been, and despite every feint and thrust he throws she blocks them eagerly, pushing him back until he’s right up against the short, crumbling stone wall that’s all that stands between them and a sheer drop to the bottom of the cliffs.

“You’re amazing,” he gasps out, fully against the wall now.

Renfri grins more, a bright, sharp thing. “I ought to be after twelve years!” She pushes him back more, and the stone starts to crumble behind him.

“There’s something I ought to tell you,” he manages to get out.

“Tell me.” She doesn’t let up.

“I am not left-handed either.”

He pushes her back, with a forceful thrust, and she goes while he switches his own sword between hands. Renfri narrows her eyes, wondering how she missed it. Before she has time to ponder, however, they’re both interlocked in their deadly dance again.

Quickly, in an attempt to gain some ground and earn herself a little respite, Renfri all but dives from the steps she had been pushed up just a few moments before. She turns once she’s landed, looking up to where the man in black is watching her, assessing, before he too leaps from the stairs to come down a few yards away.

Renfri stares. “Who are you?”

The man smirks a little. “No one of consequence.”

“I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

Shrugging, Renfri raises her sword again. “Okay.”

Their blades meet again, and again, slashing and parrying the whole way down to the other end of the ruins, where there’s even ground. On it goes, back and forth across the rocky terrain, Renfri’s feet moving with the grace and speed of an improvisational dance. One quick strike, however, and her blade is knocked free. She manages to dodge the strike and rolls, catching up the sword and retreating a few yards while the man steadily advances on her.

Something terrible runs through her head, then. She’s given her all, done everything anyone could do – tried every style, made every maneuver – but it wasn’t enough. With that revelation, and written on his face for the world to see, the realisation dawns that she, Renfri of Creyden, is going to lose.

The man in black is moving in for the end now, blocking everything, muzzling everything, and knocking Renfri’s sword again so it goes flying from her grip.  
Swallowing, her eyes trace the blade’s movement before settling back on the one pointed right at her. She stands helplessly for a moment, not that she’d ever admit it, before dropping to her knees and bowing her head. The least she can do now is go down with some dignity.

“Kill me quickly,” she asks, closing her eyes so as not to see the inevitable swing of the sword.

The man hums again. “I’d sooner destroy a stained-glass window as an artist like yourself,” he says, and Renfri blinks, confused, watching him circle her until he’s behind her, out of sight. “However, since I can’t have you following me either…”

There’s a sharp pain to the back of Renfri’s head, and she knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one is slightly longer than the others, but it's my favourite part of the Princess Bride and I wanted to pay it all due respect.
> 
> Enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

“Inconceivable!” Cahir shouts, staring out at where they can see the man in black emerging from the site of the ruins, Renfri nowhere in sight. Yennefer spares a quick prayer for Renfri, hoping that the other woman is alright, before catching the prince’s eye.

To her surprise, he’s already looking at her, an expression similar to irritation spread across his features. She raises her eyebrow, and when he sees that he’s got her attention, rolls his eyes with a jerk of the head directed at Cahir.

A grin slips its way onto Yennefer’s lips and she nods slightly, still holding his bindings in her well-manicured hand. His, she’s noticed, are soft too, with one exception: the callouses on each of his fingertips. She remembers the lute that had been attached to the boy’s saddle with the dawning realisation that it hadn’t just been a pretty trinket.

“Give him to me,” Cahir demands, finally wrenching his gaze away from the still-distant, but steadily approaching, man in black. Yennefer and the prince both snap their eyes towards the surly man, whose arm is outstretched to take the prince’s bindings.

To her confusion, Yennefer finds herself reluctant to do so, but the choice is taken from her when an impatient Cahir grabs them and pulls the prince to his side.

“Catch up with us, quickly,” he orders, checking the knots on the binding.

Yennefer shoots the prince a glance. “What do I do?”

“Finish him, finish him!” Cahir yells, satisfied with the ties and looking up at the mage. “Your way!”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh good, my way. Thank you, Cahir. Now which way is my way?”

The prince snorts at her sarcastic tone, which only seems to rile his captor more. He points at the rocks just behind them.

“Pick up one of those rocks, get behind the boulder, and in a few minutes the man in black will come running around the bend. The minute his head is in view, use your magic and hit it with the rock!” He’s practically spitting by the end of his tirade; voice having raised multiple octaves as well. There’s a split second of silence before he hurries away, dragging the prince behind him.

Yennefer follows them with her eyes until they’re out of sight. “My way’s not very sportsmanlike,” she murmurs, nevertheless leaning down and picking up a good-size rock about twice the size of her fist. She tosses it up experimentally, catching it and weighing it in her hand before huffing and heading over to the larger rocks behind her. The man is much closer now, and she leans against one of the boulders a she watches him advance.

The man in black has almost reached her hiding spot by now, and she’s about to label him an imbecile for just charging through an unfamiliar terrain, when he proves her wrong and stops, looking around him. Smarter than he looks, then.

He stays still another couple minutes, looking around him and listening while Yennefer does her best to stay hidden. Satisfied with the apparent silence, the man takes another step forward and the mage makes her move, levitating the rock in her hand into the air and jettisoning it towards the man with a casual flick of her wrist. It hits its target, shattering with a smattering of purple sparks against the boulder only a foot or two from the man’s face, who promptly rears back and draws his sword.

Figuring it’s about time she makes her appearance, Yennefer steps forward with the remnant of magic crackling about her fingertips. 

“I did that on purpose,” she states, watching the man’s focus snap to her. “I don’t have to miss.” To emphasize her point, she raises her right hand and with it, another rock slightly smaller than the first rising up into the air with it.

The man in black eyes the rock warily, shifting his balance. “I believe you.”

“I’ve heard tales of your kind, butcher,” she quips, having guessed his identity the first time she noticed him on that boat. The man flinches slightly. Like this, Yennefer is able to get a good look at him. He’s tall, a good six feet at least, and his shoulders are broad with the telltale sign of an athletic man, betraying the strength behind them. So far impressed, she sweeps her assessing gaze up to his face, still half-covered by the black mask but with locks of white hair falling out of the back and over his shoulders. He’s still watching her, cautious. Good.

“Hm,” he starts, and tilts his head a little bit. “What happens now?”

Yennefer takes him in once more, then studies her rock before making a decision on what to say. “We face each other as the Goddess intended. Sportsmanlike,” she proposes, flicking a stray strand of dark hair out of her face and chuckling internally at her personal joke. “No tricks, no weapons, just Chaos and skill against skill alone.”

The man seems to consider this, his eyes flashing almost gold from this distance. “You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try to kill each other like civilised people?”

Nodding, Yennefer lets another small burst of magic lift the rock higher. “I could kill you now,” she reminds him, voice gentle but threatening.

She gets set to launch, but wisely, the man in black shakes his head. He sheathes his sword and removes the scabbard from his belt, laying it down at a safe distance before heading slowly towards the mage.

“Frankly,” he begins, raising his arms a little way. “I think the odds are slightly in your favour.”

She lets the rock fall and rolls her neck before imitating his stance. “It’s not my fault being the best and most powerful.” She flashes him a grin. “I don’t even practise.”

The man in black is not now, and never has been, inferior to others in stature or power – but now, it’s like he’s not even in the competition. The first sign of _aard_ is easily repelled, and he’s sent crashing to the ground as a result of a purple shockwave.

Yennefer tuts, stepping around him and blocking the rush of flames from _igni_ that’s directed at her next with only a hint of difficulty, her appearance still immaculate as the man clambers up.

“Fuck,” the man grunts, to the mage’s satisfaction. “Are you messing with me, or what?”

“I just want you to feel you’re doing well,” Yennefer soothes, sending her own burst of fire in his direction, forcing hm to duck and roll out of the way. “I’d hate for you to die embarrassed.”

She lunges, reaching for the man with a hand covered in black smoke, but the man drops to his knees and spins loose, kicking at one of her legs as he goes.  
Yennefer crashes to the ground, huffing at the impact. “You’re quick,” she notes, mentally deciding not to even try to go easy on him anymore as she pushes herself back up to her feet.

The man shrugs. “Hm.”

On her feet again, with fresh spells ready in her arsenal, the mage starts to circle the man. “Why do you always wear a mask?” she asks, part genuine curiosity, and part distraction attempt. “I know who you are. So why? Were you burned by acid, or something like that?”

The man groans as he’s knocked down by one of her rapid-fire shots, clambering back to his feet impressively fast. “Comfortable,” he grunts. “I think everyone will be wearing them in future.”

Yennefer considers this for a second, remembering the last time she’d worn a mask. Fairly recently, as it happens. She thought it looked nice. “I suppose you’re right,” she concedes, stepping forward and aiming a ball of pale blue mist at the man, though again, he manages to just slip past it. Annoyed, she goes to form another and advance on him, only to find that the second she tries to make a step her feet don’t move.

“ _Yrden_ ,” the man explains, and Yennefer could kick herself for missing that. She shouldn’t have tried to distract him; she’d only managed to be distracted herself as he surreptitiously cast the trap that she’s now stuck in. Angered, her eyes flash even brighter as she pours a supernova of energy towards the ground beneath her, feeling the trap tremble and crack open, releasing her to turn towards the man with a new assault.

Before she can, however, two strong arms wrap around her throat, cutting off her airway.

“I just figured… out… why you give me… so much trouble,” Yennefer gasps out, trying to form a sign for an incantation to get her released, but the man grips her wrist before she can complete it.

“Why is that, do you think?” the man asks, arms never leaving her neck.

“Well,” Yennefer’s voice is strained now, and she’s fighting hard against the _axii_ sign the man just made. “I haven’t fought… just one person… for so long. I’ve been specialising in groups. Battling… rival gangs for local… warlords and that kind of… thing.” The last word is a struggle, and she resorts to gripping the man’s forearms, trying to pry them off of her.

The man squeezes tighter, even when she tries to back him into the boulder behind them. “Why should that make such a difference?”

“You see,” she starts, and now her voice is definitely growing weaker as she scrabbles at his arms. “You use… different techniques…” she trails off, slumping a bit in his arms as spots appear in her eyes. She winds up with her knees on the ground, the man all but supporting her full weight as she makes an aborted motion to stand, before collapsing completely, eyes sliding closed as unconsciousness overtakes her.

Two heartbeats, and then the man in black lowers her gently to the ground, laying her on her back with her head tilted to the side to help her airflow. He leans down, listening to ensure that she’s still breathing – albeit shallowly – before sitting up and stretching his hand a couple times.

“I don’t envy you the headache you will have when you awake,” he says, pushing himself up to his feet. “In the meantime, rest well.” Dashing to where he left his sword, he spares the mage one final look before rushing back onto the path Cahir and the prince has ran down.

______________________________________________________________________________

Fringilla slips her boot into a footprint in the sand, following the others with her eyes. Stregobor, mounted on his horse with half a dozen armed soldiers behind him, watches on. The princess traces more tracks, searching all over the rocky ground as she searches for the answer.

“There was a mighty duel,” she utters, loud enough for the others to hear. “It ranged all over. They were both masters.”

Stregobor leans forward in his saddle. “Who won? How did it end?”

Fringilla looks down at a larger compression in the gravel, a spot where on of the two fighters had seemed to fall to the ground. “The loser ran off alone,” she says, pointing at the retreating steps away from the spot. She turns, looking towards where the other footsteps lead. “The winner followed those footprints towards Cintra.”

“Shall we track them both?” Stregobor asks, watching as his mistress returns to the rest of the group.

“The loser is nothing,” she says decisively. “Only the prince matters.” Turning to the soldiers behind them, Fringilla’s face is schooled, her voice monotone. “Clearly this was all planned by warriors of Cintra. We must all be ready for whatever lies ahead.”

“Could this be a trap?”

The princess looks towards Stregobor, who had asked the question.

“I always assume everything could be a trap,” Fringilla responds easily, fitting her foot in the stirrup. “That’s why I’m still alive.”

She swings back into her saddle, spurring her horse into a gallop out of the ruins. The others follow quickly behind her, their course set for the Cintran frontier.


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier is sitting on an exceedingly uncomfortable rock. For once, he’s being quiet like he’s been told, hands still tied in front of him, but this time, there’s a blindfold around his eyes as well. A significant downgrade, in his humble opinion. He had been pushed down into this perch with no decorum, watching as his captor set out a spread of refreshments before he found a scrap of cloth to cover the prince’s eyes. It’s confusing.

Soon enough, the answer comes when a thud of footsteps approaches their location, presumably from the man in black following them.

A crunch rings out and the footsteps stop, only to be followed by a loud chewing noise. Apparently, Cahir is eating one of the apples.

“So,” he starts, swallowing. “It is down to you, and it is down to me.”

There’s no sound of response. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s because the man in black has inclined his head or whether he’s just staying still.

“If you wish him dead, by all means keep moving forward,” his captor says calmly, which is the precise opposite of how Jaskier feels when he feels the sharp point pressed to his unprotected throat. He inhales shakily, now more concerned for his safety than before. He’s a musician, a performer – after his hands his throat and mouth are his best features.

“Let me explain,” comes a new voice, deep and rough. It’s followed by another press of the blade to Jaskier’s neck.

“There’s nothing to explain,” comes the contradict. “You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen.”

The crunch of dry grass crushed underfoot sounds softly. “Perhaps and arrangement can be reached.”

“There will be no arrangement.” Cahir’s arm wraps around Jaskier’s shoulder and presses the blade fully against his throat, a long line stinging slightly on unmarked skin. “And you’re killing him.”

Silence reigns for a moment, and admittedly, the prince’s mind is running wildly – but the question at the forefront is related to the man in black’s identity, and why does he care about Jaskier’s safety? He can’t think of anyone back in Nilfgaard who would really care, even Fringilla wouldn’t be too put out.

“But if there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse.” That deep voice is enthralling.

“I’m afraid so,” Cahir agrees. “I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my brains.”

“You’re that smart?”

The hand on Jaskier’s arm tightens. “Let me put it this way: have you ever heard of Nicodemus, Lindenbrog, Brandon?”

“Yes.”

“Morons.”

Jaskier holds back a snort. He knows those names – all lauded graduates of Oxenfurt Academy, a place he’d long dreamt of attending – and there’s no way this man is more intelligent than them. He doesn’t make a noise, though. The knife is still pressed against his throat, after all. He can’t quite stop the smirk from spreading on his lips, only to be quickly wiped off when the sharp point presses a little more insistently.

“Really,” drawls the man in black, and Jaskier is pleased when it’s apparent he’s just as unimpressed. “Well, in that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

“For the prince?” Cahir asks incredulously. “To the death?”

There’s no response. Jaskier can only assume that the man is nodding, especially when Cahir voices his assent and the blade is removed from his neck. He can breathe a bit easier, now.

“Good. Then pour the wine.” Some more crunches of footfalls, and then an odd sound which seems to be the man sitting down on the rock set at the other side of the makeshift table. 

Cahir pours the wine, as evidenced by the sloshing ringing out across the relatively still area. For a while, there’s no talking, ad Jaskier ponders if there’s a way he can remove his blindfold without his captor noticing. He thinks he probably could, if the man in black manages to keep him distracted – only the looming threat of the knife being returned to his throat stops him.

“Inhale this, but do not touch,” the man in black says after a bit.

There’s the sound of Cahir inhaling. “I smell nothing.”

“Hm,” the man grunts. “What you do not smell is called an arachas powder. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid and is among the deadlier poisons known to man.” 

Cahir makes a noise of interest, and then Jaskier strains his ears to hear anything beyond that. There are a couple clinks, and the sound of cloth rustling, before something gets set down on the temporary table.

“All right,” the man in black says, indicating that whatever he’s just done is finished. “Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right and who is dead.”

Now than ever, Jaskier wishes he could see what’s happening. This sounds like the sort of encounter he’d like to write a song about, and he’s more than eager to see what happens next. He has no idea what this man in black wants from him, but he seems like the better party to root for currently.

“But it’s so simple,” Cahir says, interrupting Jaskier’s musings. He seems confident, but there’s no way he could have figured it out so quickly. “All I have to do is divine from what I know of you. Are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet, or his enemy’s?” 

The man in black says nothing.

Taking that as his opportunity, Cahir continues. “Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I’m not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.” There’s a beat of silence. “But you must have known I was not a great fool; you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes under the blindfold. His captor is clearly stalling.

“You’ve made your decision, then?” comes the rough voice. Apparently, the man in black thinks he’s stalling too.

“Not remotely,” Cahir denies. “Because arachas come from Ysgith, as everyone knows. And Ysgith is frequented by criminals, and criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me. So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”

“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect,” the man in black states, and he sounds just as bored as Jaskier.

Cahir doesn’t seem to hear the tone. “You must have suspected I would have known the powder’s origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“You’re just stalling now.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” Cahir cackles. “You’ve been my witch, which means you’re exceptionally powerful. So, you could have put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your power to save you. So, I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you’ve also bested my Redanian, which means you must have studied. And in studying, you must have learned that man is mortal so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“You’re trying to trick me into giving away something. It won’t work.”

“It has worked!” It’s a triumphant tone, and Jaskier flinches a little from the force of it. “You’ve given everything away – I know where the poison is!”

“Make your choice,” the man in black growls, impatient. 

Cahir laughs sharply. “I will! And I choose – what in the world can that be?”

Jaskier startles, and it sounds like the man in black has risen to his feet.

“Where?” he barks. “I don’t see anything.”

“Oh, well, I could have sworn I saw something. No matter,” his captor sounds too self-satisfied, and Jaskier frowns. He’s sure the man did something while the man had his back turned. Cahir starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” the man demands.

The air moves next to the prince’s face, causing Jaskier duck les this get hit. “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, let’s drink – me from my glass, and you from yours.”

There’s silence again, then the sound of twin swallows. Jaskier holds his breath as he waits for the poison to affect one of the two men.

“You guessed wrong,” the man in black says, and Jaskier could jump for joy.

Cahir, however, starts to laugh. “You only think I guessed wrong!” His voice raises a couple octaves before the next sentence. “That’s what’s so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned. You fool!”

The man in black doesn’t respond.

“You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is ‘never get involved in a land war in Temeria’. But only slightly less well known is this: ‘never go in against an Etolian when death is on the line’!” His laughter grows louder, until it seems hysterical – then stops altogether.

All is quiet for a moment, just soft footsteps and then gentle hands removing the blindfold from around Jaskier’s eyes. He blinks, adjusting to the bright light after being subjected to the dark for so long, then gets his first good look at the man in black as he’s pulled to his feet.

“Who are you?” he asks, wonder in his voice as he takes in the all-black attire, the broad shoulders and wisps of white hair escaping from beneath his mask, a sword attached to his belt.

“I am no one to be trifled with,” the man grunts, toeing Cahir’s body. “That is all you ever need know.” He heads towards the edge of the mountain path, leading him along too.

Jaskier takes one last glance at the rocks and the dead body of his captor. “To think – all that time it was your cup that was poisoned.” He looks at his new saviour in a new light.

The man cuts the bindings around Jaskier’s wrists. “They were both poisoned,” he says gruffly. “I spent the last few years building up an immunity to all sorts of toxins.”

With that, he takes off, leaving Jaskier to follow along in his wake.

__________________________________________________________________________________

“Someone has beaten a witch,” Fringilla states, sending Stregobor a glance from where she’s knelt on the ground amongst the rocks, examining one of the various scorch marks. 

Slowly, she stands back up and gives the place one last sweeping gaze before turning abruptly and leaping on her horse.

Hands on the reins, she gives them a quick tug, directing the horse towards the footsteps leading down the mountain path. “There will be great suffering in Cintra if she dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit later than I was hoping to get this up, but my dad claimed he was the best at MarioKart in our household so naturally I had to prove him wrong.
> 
> Anyways, it's up, and I'm hoping to get at least another one up tomorrow too!


	7. Chapter 7

The man in black shoves Jaskier away from him, causing him to slip and collapse on a piece of rock. They’ve been running for what feels like hours, and although Jaskier knows he’s quite fit, he’s definitely not so in shape that he could easily keep pace.

“Catch your breath,” the man in black says, voice harsh as he checks over his vambraces. 

Jaskier glares at him. “If you’ll release me, whatever you ask for ransom you’ll get it, I promise you,” he offers, voice annoyed in an attempt to mimic the harshness of his new captor – for that’s what this man had to be.

“What is that worth?” the man asks, glancing over. “The promise of a princeling. You’re very funny, highness.”

“I was giving you a chance.” Jaskier crosses his arms. “No matter where you take me, there’s no greater hunter than Princess Fringilla. She could track a falcon on a cloudy day. She can find you.”

The man in black scoffs. “You think your dearest love will save you?”

“I never said she was my dearest love,” Jaskier bites back without thinking. “And yes, she will save me.”

The mask covers the top half of his face, but even so Jaskier could swear that the man is raising his eyebrows as he speaks. “You admit to me you do not love your fiancée?”

Arms crossed; the prince shakes his head. “She knows I do not love her.”

“Are not capable of love, is what you mean.”

Jaskier stands, blue eyes flashing as he takes a hasty step forward in is anger and hurt. “I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream!” he shouts, hands clenched into fists – heedless of the fact that he could probably not do any damage to his captor.

The man in black reaches for his sword, tightening his fingers around the hilt. “Take this as a warning, highness,” he says, voice rough and rumbling. “Where I come from, there are penalties when a man lies.”

______________________________________________________________________________________

Fringilla inhales, sniffing at the empty sachet lying atop the makeshift table, a corpse lying dead on the other side of it. 

“Arachas powder,” she announces, discarding the packet with distaste. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“They can’t be far ahead,” Stregobor says, eyes scanning the horizon.

Fringilla nods sharply, reaching for her horse’s reins. “And there are the prince’s footprints. He is alive – or was, an hour ago. If he is otherwise when I find him…” she trails off, but the threat implied is not lost on any of her party. Swiftly, they move to fall in line behind her as she and her horse gallop off, leading the way.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

If the sun is anything to go by, Jaskier would wager that it’s another hour before they finally stop again. He’s taken the time to study his new captor more closely than before, watching the ease with which he moves, and the displeased scowl that always seems to rest on his lips. It’s just before they stop that it clicks in his mind who this man is.

“Rest, highness,” the man in black says, stopping just atop the edge of a ravine. Jaskier glances down as he goes to sit, taking in the almost sheer drop. Below, the ravine floor is flat, but getting there would not be half the fun.

Turning away from the edge, he stares at the man as he too takes a seat. “I know who you are,” he says eventually, and the man’s eyes snap to him. “Your cruelty reveals everything.”

There’s no response that seems forthcoming, so Jaskier continues.

“You’re the Butcher of Blaviken, admit it!”

The man in black takes a little bow. “With pride!” he replies, spreading his arms. “What can I do for you?”

Jaskier glares at him, annoyed at the man’s lighthearted tone as memories of harder times flicker in his mind. “You can die,” he decides after a beat of silence, the old anger resurfacing. “You can die slowly cut into a thousand pieces.”

“Hmm,” the Butcher responds, crossing his arms and tilting his head slightly to the side. “Hardly complimentary, your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?”

The heartache and bitterness remain as Jaskier tries to burn a hole in the man with his eyes. “You killed my love.”

The Butcher seems to study him for a moment. “It’s possible; I kill a lot of people.” There’s a pause, as he watches the prince. “Who was this love of yours? Another princess, like this one: ugly, rich, and greedy?”

“No!” Jaskier snaps, blinking to try and quell the swelling he feels in his eyes. “A farmhand. Poor. Poor and perfect, with eyes like the sun at last light.” If Jaskier did not hate the man sitting before her so, the tears would have likely bubbled over by now.

Still, the man watches him, and the prince feels compelled to continue.

“On the streets of Blaviken, your convoy attacked. And the Butcher never takes prisoners.”

The man hums. “I can’t afford to make exceptions,” he says, in a tone not unlike a schoolteacher explaining a sum. “One word leaks out that a brigand has gone soft, people begin to disobey you. That’s more work than I need.”

“You mock my pain!” Jaskier shouts, jumping to his feet. The man in black imitates him, and now he can see that they’re of a height – thought the Butcher, with his strong form and wide shoulders, seems to command the space more.

“Life is pain, highness,” he says lowly. “Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Jaskier glares harder than before, but the man only takes a step back and uncrosses his arms.

“I remember this farmhand of yours, I think. This would have been… what, five years ago?”

The prince nods.

Yellow eyes stare into blue ones, pondering. “Does it bother you to hear?”

“Nothing you can say will upset me,” Jaskier swears, jaw set to keep any tremors at bay.

The Butcher hums. “He died well, that should please you. No bribe attempts or blubbering,” he begins, circling the prince slowly. “He simply said ‘please, I need to live’. It was the ‘please’ that caught my memory. I asked him what was so important to him. And I remember how it seemed to pain him, saying these words, like he was forcing them out between his teeth – though that seemed to make it all the more real.” He chuckles, before continuing – the prince a statue before him. “’True love’, he replied. And then he spoke of a boy of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. I can only assume he meant you.” 

He looks on at Jaskier with distaste, who fights the urge to flinch at the words.

“You should bless me for destroying him before he found out what you are.”

Jaskier exhales shakily. “And what am I?”

“Faithfulness he talked of.” The Butcher seems less spiteful and more angry, now. “Your enduring faithfulness. Tell me: when you found out that he was gone, did you get engaged to your princess that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?”

“Fuck you,” Jaskier snarls, whirling on the man with such malice that the man in black takes a small step back. “You mocked me once, never do it again! I died that day!”

The man in black stares at him, cornflower eyes hazed over by fury. He’s about to reply, but a faraway whinny draws his attention to the dust cloud rising on the horizon, caused by dirt kicked up amongst Fringilla’s horses.

Jaskier glances down, and sees that the man who caused her so much pain is standing right at the very edge of the lip over the ravine. Summoning all the strength he has, he steps forward. “And you can die too, for all I care,” he utters, eyes flashing as he pushes the man over the edge.

He teeters on the edge for a moment, then Jaskier watches in grim satisfaction as his balance falters and he tumbles, crashing over the lip and sending him rolling down the sharp drop, grunts of pain getting fainter as he goes.

Jaskier stares down, transfixed by what he’s done – he’s never tried to kill anybody, before – then strains his ears as he hears words being carried back up to him by the wind.

“As… you… wish…”

To his horror, all of a sudden, the pieces slot into place. The yellow eyes, the white hair – the irrational need to rescue him.

“Oh, my sweet Geralt,” he whispers, shock numbing his body. “What have I done?”

Then, to top the list of stupid things Jaskier has done in his life, Jaskier starts into the ravine without a second thought or consideration of the dangers. A moment later he slips, and then he too is falling – spinning and twisting and crashing just as he’d forced Geralt to do moments before, hurtling down towards the bottom of the ravine.

From the top of the hill, the dust cloud is rising as Fringilla and her party rein their horses in, looking out at the spot where they had seen the flash of scarlet from the prince’s doublet.

“Disappeared,” Fringilla states, shaking her head. He must have seen us closing in, which might account for his panicking in error. Unless I am wrong.”

Stregobor pulls up beside her. “You are never wrong, your Highness.”

Fringilla nods once to show that she’s heard. “They are headed dead into the fire swamp.”

The mere mention of the Fire Swamp makes the rest of her party, including Stregobor, pale.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Slowly, Geralt forces himself up, a pained grunt escaping him as he reaches towards his pounding head, quickly realising as he does that his mask must have fallen off as he tumbled down the slope.

The slope!

Spitting a strand of hair out his mouth, he rolls onto his front and pushes up on his arms, glancing towards the top of the ravine where he’d been standing before…

Before Jaskier shoved him over the edge and then followed suit.

Geralt looks to his left, and there, maybe tens yards away lies Jaskier, still as the grave, eyes closed and few shallow scratches on his face. Scrambling towards him, he reaches out a shaking hand to brush away a lock of brown hair from where it’s hanging over the younger man’s face.

“Jas…” he breaths out, stroking the man’s chin as his eyes flutter open, immediately locking on Geralt’s with something shining that’s akin to wonder. “Can you move?”

Jaskier grins, that cheeky one that used to make Geralt’s insides melt, and, as evidenced by the feeling in his stomach, it still does. “Move?” he repeats, reaching up to cup the line of Geralt’s jaw. “You’re alive. If you want, I can fly.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at the familiar dramatics. “I told you I would always come for you. Why didn’t you wait for me?” There’s the slightest tinge of hurt lacing his words. No one else would pick up on it, but Jaskier, as always, does.

“Well,” he starts slowly, eyes tracing all over his love’s face. “I guess… well, I didn’t have much choice. And you were dead.”

Geralt’s eyes harden at that. “All destiny can do is delay our meeting.”

“I will never doubt it again,” Jaskier responds.

“Hmm.” 

Content at that, Jaskier slides his hand along Geralt’s jaw and slips it into his hair, tugging slightly and bringing the man’s lips down to meet his, tenderly – tender and loving and gentle.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Oh no. No, please,” Ciri groans, covering her face in her hands at those words.

“What is it?” Vesemir asks, as if the bastard doesn’t know.

“They’re kissing again,” Ciri gripes, pulling her hands away from her face to reveal the frown there. “Do we have to hear the kissing part?”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “Someday, you may not mind so much.”

Ciri rolls her eyes. “Skip on to the Fire Swamp, that sounded good.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir hums, not unlike the protagonist in his book. “Fine, you’re sick. I’ll humour you, but only this once, you hear?”

Settling back against her pillows, Ciri nods.

“Now, where were we here? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay. Geralt and Jaskier raced along the ravine floor…”

______________________________________________________________________________________

Geralt glances up, seeing the princess and her party perched on top of the cliff, looking down at them. He hums. “Seems your fool fiancée is too late. A few more steps and we’ll be safe in the Fire Swamp.”

He darts forward, tugging Jaskier along with him, but kindlier than when he was still masked.

Jaskier looks at the tangle of branches ahead with trepidation. “We’ll never survive.”

“Nonsense,” Geralt responds, in a chevalier tone. “You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't get this up yesterday! I got distracted, but to make up for it, I'll put up two chapters by the end of tomorrow!


	8. Chapter 8

Technically, the Fire Swamp doesn’t look any worse than any other moist, sulphurous, infernal horror you might run across. It’s dark, great trees rising up, boughs tangling and blocking the sun from view. Jaskier is clearly panicking, and he thinks maybe Geralt is too, but he hides it well – moving jauntily along, sword gripped tightly in his hand.

“It’s not that bad,” Geralt says as they stop for a brief rest. Jaskier stares up at him, confused and vaguely concerned. “I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here,” Geralt is quick to defend when he notices the disbelieving gaze directed at him. “But the trees are nice. Lots of good cover.”

Blankly, Jaskier looks up at the branches overhead. The giant trees, thick and black-green, exude an ominous feeling and shield all but some intermittent stripes of sun. Pointedly, Jaskier glares at the older man.

Geralt hums, mouth shutting before any retort can be forthcoming, turning his head sharply when a slight popping sound emerges. It quickly fades, only to be replaced by harsh crackling as a large spurt of flame leaps up, just catching the sleeve of Jaskier’s doublet and setting it alight. 

Quickly, Geralt looses the grip on his sword, instead reaching for the prince’s sleeve, the leather gloves on his hands doing their best to smother the flames, but even so, it’s been almost completely ruined. He lets the burnt fabric and now-useless gloves fall to the forest floor, glancing up to look Jaskier in the eye.

“Well now,” he muses, running a hand up the other man’s arm and checking for any burns. “Singed a bit, were you?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he responds, then eyes Geralt. “You?”

Geralt responds in the negative, pulling the prince up to his feet.

“Oh…” Jaskier trails off, taking in the state of his outfit. “This was new, too! I hope the seamstress will be able to craft me a new one, but it just won’t be the same.”

Rolling his eyes at the man bemoaning his clothes, Geralt starts to pull the man along with him again. Somethings, it would seem, never change.

There’s another popping sound, and he grasps Jaskier to spin him out of the way to safety just as another line of flame shoots up.

“Well, one thing I can say. The Fire Swamp certainly does keep you on your toes.” He goes to move forward again, only to find his hand pulled back. He turns. “Jas?”

Jaskier’s frozen, blue eyes blown wide as he turns at the sound of his name. Geralt’s face softens, remembering that Jaskier has never had to deal with a situation as dangerous as what he’s been facing since yesterday, and, if Geralt has anything to say about it, after this he never will again.

“This will all soon be but a memory,” he murmurs, gently tugging Jaskier back into motion. It’s getting later in the day, if the rare streaks of sunlight slanting at a slightly different angle are anything to go by. “There’s a boat waiting at the far end to take us to Blaviken. And I, as you know, am the Butcher.”

That name seems to be enough to jolt Jaskier from his fretting. “But how is that possible?” he asks, brow furrowed. “Since he’s been marauding twenty years at least – I’ve heard the songs! And you only left me five years ago?”

The popping sounds again, and the two of them carefully sidestep the flames that erupt.

“What I told you earlier about saying ‘please’ was true,” Geralt says, and he sounds sincere. “It intrigued the Butcher, as did my descriptions of you.” Jaskier blushes, but feels his heart rising at the words, especially when his partner shoots him a small smile.

His sword comes up again to cut through some hideous vines, that almost look like they could be flesh-eating. Ordinarily, Jaskier wouldn’t pay any heed to that particular concern, but in this swamp he wouldn’t be surprised if they were.

“Eventually the Butcher decided to keep me on as his valet,” Geralt continued, still holding Jaskier’s hand to guide him. “Every night, he’d say: ‘good night, Geralt, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning’. But it was a fine time, I advanced my sword fighting, and brawling, anything anyone would teach me. And the Butcher and I eventually became friends. Then it happened.”

“What?” Jaskier presses, reeling a little from the sheer quantity of how much Geralt is saying.

“The Butcher had grown so rich, he wanted to retire. He called me to his shack and told me his secret: that he himself is not the Butcher of Blaviken,” Geralt continues to explained to his enraptured audience of one. “His name is Filavandrel and he had inherited the role from the previous Butcher, who wasn’t the real one either. Apparently, the real Butcher has been retired fifteen years and is living like a king in Aedirn.”

They hop over a small stream, clogged with rotting leaves and what Jaskier thinks is a dead animal. He wrinkles his nose, attempting to spare his kidskin riding boots from the mess, though they’re probably been ruined beyond compare already.

Geralt waits until Jaskier is in step with him again before continuing. “The name is the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear,” he explains. “No one would surrender to Geralt of Blaviken. He took on a new convoy, and started referring to me as the Butcher. Eventually, once the others believed, he was able to slip into his own retirement, and I have been the Butcher ever since. Except, now that I have you again, I’ll hand over the name to someone else.”

Jaskier is still more than a little perplexed. He nods once, but before he can even open his mouth the ground he steps on give way – it’s lightning sand, a great patch of it. A cloud of powder rises and he sinks down, clawing desperately to grab the hand he’d until so recently been gripping.

“Jas! Jaskier!” Geralt cries out, springing into action as his eyes spot a suitable vine hanging between two of the large trees. He slashes it through with his sword, then tosses the blade to the side as he grabs the vine. With only a brief pause, drawing a deep breath and collecting himself, he dives in after the other man, the sand settling around him.

Now nothing can be seen, just the lightening sand, lovely and lethal and still. For a few moments, it seems as though the Fire Swamp has gone still, other than the heavy rustling in one of the bushes a little way away from the sand traps. The sound stops too, going as quickly as it had come.

There are a few moments more of stillness in the swamp, the sunlight thinner when it was before – when the vine pulled into the sand is pulled taut. A hand appears, and a second later Geralt explodes out; lungs long past the bursting point. He’s got Jaskier draped across his shoulders, and he pulls them out hand by hand on the vine. 

Jaskier is coughing roughly as he’s deposited onto the ground, sand caked over his face as Geralt drags them over to a tree, trying to wipe the sand out of his own eyes as he goes. Helping Jaskier brush the sand off, a noise alerts him to the presence of something else in these woods.

Looking up, his eyes meet red ones staring down at them.

Geralt stares back, continuing to help Jaskier as much as he can well watching the beast above him.

“We’ll never make it,” Jaskier mumbles, eyes fluttering. “We may as well die here.”

“No,” Geralt disagrees vehemently. “Fuck, no. We’ve already made it.” There’s a snarl, and two more red eyes are watching them hungrily. 

With as much optimism in his gaze as he can muster, he hauls Jaskier back up and starts them in as swift a pace as the younger man can manage, keeping his eyes trained on the undergrowth around them.

“The three terrors of the Fire Swamp,” he says, trying to keep Jaskier distracted. “One, the flame spurts. There’s a popping sound preceding each, we can avoid that. Two, the lightning sand. You were clever enough to discover that yourself.” Jaskier shoots him an unamused look, and Geralt feels the side of his lip tug up. “So, in the future, we can avoid that too.”

He’s suddenly tugged to a halt, and although he’s still trying to keep an eye on the presences in the branches around them, he turns his attention to Jaskier when he sees the genuine concern in the man’s eyes.

“But, Geralt,” he starts, grasping the older man’s arm. “What about the W.O.U.S.’s?”

Geralt scoffs a little, though he knows it’s for show and that Jaskier probably doesn’t believe him. He’s lost sight of one set of red eyes, and that is concerning even as he tries to keep his own tension off of his frame. 

“Wargs of Unusual Size?” he repeats, trying to keep his tone light. “I don’t think they exist.”

Neither of them is able to move before one of the W.O.U.S.’s lunges straight towards them, sinking its stinking teeth into Geralt’s arm as he turns toward the sound, shoving Jaskier behind him and out of the way.

“Geralt!” Jaskier screams in fear, catching sight of another of the beasts approaching.

Geralt notices, but he’s pinned under the attacking W.O.U.S., trying to fend it off and failing. He grunts as the thing’s teeth tighten around his arm. Driving a fist into the warg’s face, he’s able to roll it off and reaches towards his sword, lying a few feet away from when it had been knocked out of his grasp. It just slips through his fingers as the other W.O.U.S. leaps on top of him. He tries the same manoeuvre, scrambling and managing to grab his sword when it grants him a moment’s reprieve.

The other warg, having shaken off its stunned state, turns its red eyes on the other man and starts to stampede. Jaskier is frozen in place, faced with the gaping maws of death, but still manages to whimper out Geralt’s name, causing the man to grip the warg’s tail and try and drag it back.

Unfrozen, Jaskier grabs a piece of broken branch from the forest floor, using it as a club and assisting his partner in beating the creature off, leaving a sizable dent in the thing’s skull as it collapses to the ground.

Geralt pushes himself up from the ground, watching Jaskier with a smile laced with pride and approval, when a searing pain in his shoulder pushes him back down. _Fuck_. He’d forgotten about the other one.

Wrenching it off, he only manages to get the thing’s face closer to his own, and he grasps the snapping jaws desperately, trying to keep it from biting his head off. With death close at hand, his straining ears admit the faint popping noise, just a yard or two to his left. In one last attempt, he rolls, depositing the struggling beast right into the path of the fire spurt, scrambling out of the way as the flames lick over the beast’s fur, engulfing it in seconds.

Jaskier runs up to him, hands flitting over the mess of his shoulder. Geralt simply stands, dazed as those tender fingers examine the wound. Once satisfied he’ll survive for now, Jaskier sighs in relief, slumping forward slightly. “We did it,” he says breathlessly, almost in disbelief.

Geralt smiles softly, covering the prince’s hands with his own. “Now, was that so terrible?”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

It’s another hour before they see the edge of the forest, the light stronger now. From somewhere, they’re both able to summon the last of their strength and stumble out of the horrifying Fire Swamp.

Once outside, they pause – and Jaskier turns to look up at Geralt, eyes bright in the knowledge that they’re finally out of danger.

The edges of Geralt’s lips are tilted up too, and he leans in, only to spin and push Jaskier behind him as the sound of hooves fills the clearing.

Within seconds, they’re surrounded – Fringilla sitting proudly on her horse with Stregobor beside her, three warriors, armed and ready, mounted in formation behind them.

“Surrender,” Fringilla commands, eyes cold.

Geralt hums, taking in the men before him. “I accept your surrender,” he says, and Stregobor scoffs.

Fringilla sighs. “I give you full marks for bravery,” she concedes. “Don’t make yourself a fool.”

“How will you capture us?” Geralt queries, raising his sword a little higher. “We know the secrets of the Fire Swamp. We can live there happily for some time. Whenever you feel like dying, feel free to visit.” His smile glints as sharply as his blade.

“I’ll tell you once again: surrender.” The princess’ voice is even, holding back a barrage of fury.

“It will not happen!” Geralt growls.

Behind him, Jaskier takes in his supposed betrothed, before a movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns, spotting – to his horror – an armed warrior crouched in shadow, holding a loaded crossbow aimed at Geralt’s heart. Swallowing, he looks the other way and spots two more. His jaw sets as he makes up his mind.

“For the last time – surrender!” Fringilla is shouting.

“Death first!” Geralt yells right back, his voice louder than hers had been.

A fourth hidden warrior raises his cross bow and Jaskier whirls back around, pushing his way in front of Geralt. “Will you promise not to hurt him?” he beseeches, looking at his fiancée. 

Both Fringilla and Geralt whip their heads to him.

“What was that?”

“What did you say?”

Jaskier looks between them both, then faces Fringilla to address her. “If we surrender,” he starts. “And I return with you, will you promise not to hurt this man?”

Fringilla scoffs. “May I live a thousand years and never hunt again.”

“He is a fighter in the Butcher of Blaviken’s convoy,” he tries again, glancing at Geralt who’s watching him in confusion. “Promise to return him to his crew.” He turns his attention fully onto Geralt.

“I swear it will be done,” Fringilla promises, staring intently at the two figures before her before turning towards Stregobor. “Once we’re out of sight, take him back to Nilfgaard and throw him in the Pit of Despair.” She’s whispering now, her voice two low for the two still too wrapped up in each other to hear.

Stregobor bows his head. “I swear it will be done.” He smiles, his words a mockery of her earlier ones.

Fringilla nods, turning back to her betrothed and the man with him.

“I thought you were dead once,” Jaskier is saying. “And it almost destroyed me. I could not bear it if you died again, not when I could save you.”

Geralt is dazed. Silent.

Jaskier tries to speak again, but before he can he’s swept up onto the princess’ horse, Fringilla galloping away with about half of the warrior following close behind. Geralt stares after them as long as he can.

“Come, sir,” comes a voice to his right, and Geralt is pushed forward to face the princess’ second-in-command, mounted comfortably on his steed. “We must get you to your convoy.”

“We are men of action,” Geralt responds roughly. “Lies do not become us.” He glances down to the man’s hands.

Stregobor smirks a little, amused. “Well spoken, sir.” He looks down too, following the line of vision from the man in black. “What is it?”

Geralt looks back up, a satisfied grin on his lips. “You have six fingers on your right hand,” he says, and Stregobor’s smirk slips from his face. “Someone was looking for you.”

Stregobor snarls and clubs Geralt hard across the head.


	9. Chapter 9

Dank and chill, underground and windowless, lit only by flickering torches, the Pit of Despair is a frightening place. It takes Geralt only a moment to take it in, his arms straining against the chains holding him down as he does. Externally, he’s calm – he’s been in worse situations and gotten out of them just fine. The inside, however, is in turmoil. He can’t fault Jaskier for doing what he did, he’d have done the same in the situation. Neither of them is to blame for Geralt’s current predicament, though he knows that Jaskier has always been a tad too trusting to be healthy.

Something bangs in the still room and Geralt tries to whip his head towards the sound, only to be held back by the restraints around his head. Instead, he waits, eyes darting around to catch a glimpse of whatever it was.

He needn’t have made the effort, it seems, as a few moments later someone shuffles into the line of his vision. Its skin is grey and mottled, and is carrying a tray of food and medication that gets set down on a table near to the plank Geralt is tied down on.

“Where am I?” he asks, recognition flaring in his eyes as he recognises the form of an unassimilated doppler.

The doppler grabs a clean rag from his tray, dunking in in a bowl of water before reaching to dab at Geralt’s wounded shoulder. “The Pit of Despair,” it whispers, voice rough. Geralt winces at the not altogether gentle treatment. “Don’t even think about trying to escape. The chains are far too thick, and you won’t be rescued either. Only the Princess, Stregobor, and I know how to get in and out.”

He dunks the rag back in the water. Geralt watches as some of the red bleeds out before it’s once again returned to treating him. “I’m here until I die?”

The doppler continues his work. “Till they kill you,” comes the correction.

Geralt frowns. “Then why bother curing me?”

“The Princess and Stregobor always insist on everyone being healthy before they’re broken,” the doppler explains, sounding put-upon.

“So, it’s to be torture.”

The doppler nods.

Geralt settles back into the board, as much as can. “I can cope with torture.”

The doppler shakes its head. Geralt glares.

“You don’t believe me?”

“You survived the Fire Swamp,” the doppler concedes, shrugging. “You must be very brave.” It pauses, a smug sort of look lifting onto its ugly face. “But nobody withstands the machine.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier drifts down the stone hallways of the keep. He knows he must look a sight, his doublet undone to reveal his eggshell chemise, and his face is undoubtedly pallid as he slowly makes his way towards where Fringilla and Stregobor stand, watching him.

“He’s been like that ever since the Fire Swamp,” Fringilla notes, her brow creased.

Stregobor watches the prince as he slips past them. “It’s your uncle’s failing health that’s upsetting him,” he offers.

Fringilla nods disbelievingly. “Of course.”

Jaskier can’t even find it in himself to scoff at the ridiculous notion.

________________________________________________________________________________

“The King died that very night,” Vesemir reads, making Ciri frown. “And before the following dawn, Jaskier and Fringilla were married. At noon, he met his subjects again, this time as their new king consort.”

Ciri shakes her hand at the old man. “Hold it,” she argues, crossing her arms. “Hold it, Vesemir. You read that wrong.”

The man sets the book down and looks to her expectantly, waiting for her to answer.

“He doesn’t marry Fringilla, he marries Geralt,” the sick princess declares, though she seems less ill than before. “After all that Geralt did for him, if he doesn’t marry him it wouldn’t be fair!”

Vesemir huffs at her outburst. “Who says life is fair?” he asks her. “Where is that written, little cub? Life isn’t always fair.”

Ciri is what others in the court respectfully call adamant, though those who know her would classify it as ‘stubborn’. “I’m telling you; you’re messing up the story! Get it right!” She’s every bit the fierce granddaughter of the Lioness as she was born to be.

The gruff man just waits for her to calm down a little. “Are you done?” he asks. “Do you want me to go on with this?”

It takes a second for Ciri to be settled enough to answer, but she does – too invested in the story to risk losing it. “Yes.”

“Alright then,” Vesemir accepts her response, picking the book back up. “No more interruptions… at noon, he met his subjects again, this time as their new king consort.”

________________________________________________________________________________

This time, as he’s brought before the crowd, Jaskier’s chest is just as tight and panic-filled as the first time, though now there’s a tiny glimmer of hope present too. He knows Geralt is still out there, and even though he stands by his decision to ensure the man’s safety, if Geralt is even slightly the same person as five years ago there is a very real chance that he won’t take it lying down.

His breath catches as he alights on the bottom step, looking out to the crowd of people that’s somehow even larger than the last time. Everyone is staring at him, and his usual delight in attention is stripped away as he’s reminded of his new role by the weight of the crown on his head, heavy and too ostentatious even for his taste.  
There’s a pause as Jaskier stares out at the sea of faces, then the crowd mimics their actions from before, sinking to its knees. Wave after wave of silent kneeling people, until everyone he can see is bent before him. 

The panic is back again, full-blown. He’s always loved attention, loved being adored by people – but this is too much for him to bear. It’s constricting him and his breath comes shallower than before, chest heaving as his eyes frantically weave throughout the crowd. 

Jaskier gasps for air as it all becomes too much, the harsh gaze of Fringilla and Stregobor willing him into compliance from their distant balcony far above, removed from the proximity, the sheer _closeness_ of it all.

His knees give out and he collapses.

The crowd do nothing. They stay still, motionless – eyes glassy and looking right through him as if he’s not even there. Jaskier blinks his eyes closed, trying to keep himself from spiraling further, focusing on the uncomfortable press of the steps below his back, digging into his spine but still somehow numb.

There’s a press of something cool against his forehead, and he opens his eyes to look up into green eyes staring down at him, a damp cloth laid across his brow as the red-headed woman smooths his hair up out of his face.

He blinks at her. “Why do you do this?”

The woman looks down at him, pity or sympathy – he can’t tell which – burning in her gaze. “Because you had lovie in your hands, and you gave it up,” she says softly. “This is the result.”

“They would have killed Geralt if I hadn’t done it,” he whispers back, distraught. She winces at the sound of Geralt’s name, and somewhere in his mind he files that away, too out of it to address it now.

“Your true love lives and you marry other,” the woman continues, and it sounds almost like a mother scolding a toddler. “This is what comes of it. You did what you thought was best at the time, and now you must fix it.”

Jaskier stares. “How?”

The woman smiles at him, and it’s pained. “You have to figure that out yourself.” Her hands stop their soothing movements in his hair to take his hands in hers instead. “And you will. The two of you are bound by destiny, none can keep you apart.”

She sits back, and Jaskier reaches for her, the cloth slipping off of his forehead as a shout of a question forms on his lips –  
\- only to startle awake in bed.

A dream, then. Or, considering the beginning, a nightmare, Jaskier muses. He sits up quickly, about to rush out when something tickles his forehead. Confused, he reaches up, only to feel cool moisture. When he pulls his hand back down to study it, there’s a droplet on his finger. 

Distantly, he remembers the cool cloth the woman had laid on his brow, but already the memory is slipping away and he kicks off his covers, filled with a different purpose as he rises and reaches for his robe, hastily pulling it on and tying the cord as he stumbles out of his room and runs down the halls.

______________________________________________________________________________

“It was ten days until the wedding,” Vesemir reads, and Ciri smirks. “The King still lived, but Jaskier’s nightmares were growing steadily worse.”

“See?” Ciri barks, triumphant grin on her features. “Didn’t I tell you he’d never marry that rotten Fringilla?”

Vesemir rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re very smart. Shut up.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier makes it to the Princess’ office in record time. He bursts in, barefoot and heedless of court decorum. Fringilla looks up from her desk, Stregobor standing beside her, but Jaskier pays him no mind.

“It comes to this,” he starts, slightly breathless from his race from his room. Nevertheless, he lifts his chin resolutely. “I love Geralt. I always have, and I know now I always will. If you tell me I must marry you in ten days, please believe I will be dead by morning.”

Fringilla sits, stunned by the admission. A minute later, she stands, gathering her skirts around her. “I see,” she says softly, then shrugs. “Consider our wedding off. Stregobor, you returned this Geralt to his convoy?”

Stregobor nods once. “Yes.”

“Then we will simply alert him.” She steps out from behind her desk and takes a step towards Jaskier, who has let out a sigh of relief at the news. “Though, are you certain he still loves you?”

Jaskier’s eyes snap up to her.

“After all, it was you who did the leaving in the Fire Swamp,” the princess continues. “Not to mention that bandits are not known to be men of their words.”

The line of Jaskier’s mouth hardens. “My Geralt will always come for me.”

Fringilla seems to want to retort, but before she can Stregobor intervenes.

“I suggest a deal,” he says, diplomatically. Jaskier’s never trusted the man, but if he is able to come up with a compromise that gives him and Geralt a chance, he’ll listen. “You write four copies of a letter. We’ll send out our four fastest riders, one in each direction. The Butcher of Blaviken is always close to Nilfgaard this time of year. We’ll wave a white flag and deliver your message.”

Jaskier nods hesitantly. So far it sounds fair, though Fringilla is still.

“If Geralt wants you, bless you both,” Stregobor continues. “If not… please consider the princess here as an alternative to suicide.” He glances between the two of them. “Are we agreed?”

Neither says anything, until, with a defeated huff, Fringilla inclines her head. Jaskier breathes out in relief, nodding again before spinning on his heel and marching out of the room, determined to write the letters.

Two sets of annoyed eyes follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late - I wanted to make sure I kept everyone as true to their character as possible. I'll have the next chapter up later today too, which means I'm back on track!
> 
> Also the woman in Jaskier's dream was Visenna, if anyone didn't catch that!


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a grove of trees a few miles outside of the city of Nilfgaard, unusual in one respect: namely that all of the trees are extraordinarily heavily knotted. The usual quiet and calm of the copse is disturbed as Fringilla and Stregobor stroll into the grove, for once without any guards or retinue.

“Your prince is really a winning creature,” Stregobor remarks, looking around at each tree. “A trifle simple, perhaps, but his appeal is undeniable.”

Fringilla waves a hand carelessly. “Oh, I know. The people are quite taken with him,” she agrees. “It’s odd, but when I hired Cahir to have him murdered on our engagement day, I thought that was clever. But it’s going to be so much more effective when I strangle him on our wedding night. Once Cintra is blamed, the nation will truly be outraged. They’ll demand we go to war.”

They’re deeper into the grove now, as Stregobor nods politely, his eyes still scanning his surroundings. “Quite. Now, where is that blasted mirage? It’s impossible to find, and I’m the one who made it.” He presses at one of the trees, before moving to another and finding what he was looking for, one hand slipping through the illusion of bark to somewhere beyond. He pulls his arm out and turns back to the princess. “Are you coming down to the Pit? Geralt’s got his strength back, I’m starting him on the machine tonight.”

Fringilla sighs, unfolding her arms. “Stregobor, you know how much I enjoy watching you work. But I’ve got my country’s five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my husband to murder, and Cintra to frame for it. I’ve not any time left over for frivolities.”

Stregobor nods again. “Get some rest,” he urges. “If you haven’t got your health, you haven’t got anything.” 

With that said, he sends the princess a smile and disappears through the illusion, the shimmering illusion sliding seamlessly back into place once he’s through.

Below, inside the Pit, Geralt watches as the six-fingered man descends the stairs, coming to a halt beside him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, eyes running over the mostly-healed wound in Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt fixes his eyes forward. “Fuck off.”

“That’s not very nice,” Stregobor admonishes, signalling the doppler forward and watching as he pushes the table with Geralt on it into position. “Come now, Butcher. Why so gruff? Are we keeping you from your lord love?”

Clenching his jaw, Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait, just lays still as the doppler starts to layer additional straps with some sort of suction cup across his body, attaching them at pivotal points. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the large thing that had been casting a shadow in the already dark space, levers and wheels and wires spanning every inch of its surface.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Stregobor asks, though it sounds like a rhetorical question. “It took me half a lifetime to invent. I’m sure you’ve discovered my deep and abiding interest in pain. At present, I’m writing the definitive work on the subject, so I’d like for you to be totally honest with me on how the Machine makes you feel.” While speaking, he’s moved up to a platform set up with a good vantage point down to where Geralt is lying, a quill and ink and a sheaf of parchment ready on a desk. Stregobor sits, turning to a dial with numbers ranging from a low of one to a high of fifty.

Geralt can only see the man at the edge of his vision, and does his best to remain looking as unimpressed as possible. It’s not hard, he’s had quite a bit of practice.  
Stregobor smiles, amused. “This being our first try, I’ll use the lowest setting.” He turns the dial to one, fiddling with the settings as water rushes in through a flood gate and sets the Machine in motion. He turns back as he hears the man serving as his experiment groan.

He’s struggling, but Geralt knows that it’s futile. The pain he’s feeling though, negates any sort of rational thought in his mind as he desperately writhes in his bonds, trying to get away.

“As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old,” Stregobor is saying, but Geralt can barely hear him over the rushing of blood in his ears. “Really, that’s all this is. Except that instead of sucking water, I’m sucking out your life. I’ve just taken a year away from you. For the sake of research…” he pauses, shuffling the papers in front of him. “Please be honest in how you feel.”

The pain continues a moment longer, before his torturer decides to spare him and turn the machine off. The relief is immediate, but his body is still quaking intermittently, shivers of aftershocks running through his muscles. A tear leaks out of the side of his eye.

Stregobor watches the tear slide down the man’s cheek for a moment, then picks up his quill. “Interesting.”

________________________________________________________________________________

There’s a knock at her office door, and Fringilla looks up, annoyed at the disturbance. By the open door stands her captain of the guard, his eyes pale but shifty and quick.

“Istredd,” she greets.

“Sire.”

Rolling her eyes, Fringilla beckons the man over to kneel by her side. “As Chief Enforcer of all Nilfgaard, I trust you with this secret,” she begins, watching the man’s light eyes focus on her words. “Killers from Cintra are infiltrating the Thieves’ Forest and plan to murder my groom on our wedding night.”

Istredd frowns at the news. “My spy network has heard no such news. Where - “

“Any word from Geralt?” comes a voice from just inside the room and the princess and chief enforcer look up, seeing Jaskier standing nervously, a new blue ensemble perfectly fitted to his form.

“Too soon,” Fringilla responds smoothly, forcing herself not to snap. “Patience.”

Jaskier doesn’t nod. “He will come for me.”

Fringilla grits her teeth. “Of course.”

Now, the prince does nod. He gives them one last curious look before turning and gliding from the room.

“He will not be murdered,” the princess says, turning back to the man beside her chair. “On the day of the wedding, I want the Thieves’ Forest emptied and every inhabitant arrested.”

Istredd frowns. “Many of the thieves will resist,” he protests. “My regular enforcers will be inadequate.”

“Form a brute squad then.” And now, Fringilla does snap. “I want the Thieves’ Forest emptied before I wed.”

“It won’t be easy, sire,” Istredd tries one last time.

“Try ruling the world sometime.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

The brute squad is good at their job, and Istredd winces in distaste at the pitch one particular holler just to his left. He is safely standing on a wagon, held a bit above the worst of the scuffling.

“We’ve got our hands full,” he mumbles, taking in the sight of one of the bandits making a break for it, a mixture of several guards and a couple of the brute squad immediately giving chase. He runs a hand over his face, before turning to a member of the squad beside him. “You! Is everybody out?”

“Almost,” the brute responds, hefting an unpleasant-looking club over his shoulder. “There’s a witch giving us some trouble.”

Istredd scowls. “Well then, you give her some,” he orders, turning to the driver at the head of the wagon. “Move!” The driver whips the mules and the thing starts to move out, rolling steadily away from a small hovel and the pathetic lump of a woman sprawled over the ground in front of it.

Yennefer toasts the vehicle sloppily, her mouth in a messy grin as she leans against the wall of the tiny hut she’s been staying in. Some of the wine in her glass slops onto the ground.

“I am waiting for you, Cahir!” she yells to no one. “You told me to go back to the beginning. So I have. This is where I am, and this is with I’ll stay. I will not be moved.”

A shadow falls over her, and she looks up to see a member of the brute squad standing over there.

“Ho, there.”

“I do not budge,” Yennefer responds, vision starting to splinter at the edges. She looks away, shaking her head to clear it and stopping immediately when that only makes the fuzziness worse. “Keep your ‘ho there’.”

“But the princess gave orders – “

“So did Cahir,” Yennefer spits, flourishing her hand at the man, then watching distractedly when only a couple sparks light up around her fingers instead of the full blast she’d been aiming for.

In the corner of her eye, the mage sees the brute gesturing for someone to join him. “You! Brute! Come here.”

“I,” Yennefer starts, watching the sparks flicker out. “Am waiting…”

“Yes, you said,” comes an amused voice from her other side, and Yennefer jerks her head towards the noise, grimacing at the rush of dizziness that comes with the quick motion. The fuzzy figure steps closer into view, and soon she finds herself face to face with the bottom of a familiar sheath.

“It’s you,” the mage whispers in wonder, her head lolling back to look up.

Renfri smiles, all teeth. “Hello.”

In a motion too fast for Yennefer to catch in her drunken state, the dagger that Renfri keeps on her right hip is out of its place, and a second later the sound of something heavy hitting the ground behind her.

“You don’t look so good,” Renfri states, crouching down so she’s at the same level, and immediately scrunching her nose. “You don’t smell so good, either.”

Yennefer gives her a sloppy grin. “I feel fine.”

Renfri’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yennefer affirms, and with that, she faints.

With a sigh, Renfri stands and pulls the unconscious mage into a position with an arm over her shoulder, dragging the woman along with her towards an empty alehouse, determined to sober the other woman up.

It takes longer than expected.

One story about the existence of the six-fingered man, three bowls of stew, five constitution potions, and several alternating buckets of hot and cold water later, Yennefer returns to lucidity. She gasps loudly, shoving the swordswoman away before she can dunk her head into another infernal vat of water.

“That’s enough, that’s enough!” she shouts, dodging the arm reaching out to grab her. “What were you saying about a man with six fingers?”

Renfri sets down her bucket and crosses her arms, eyes hard. “The man who killed my mother,” she explains. “He’s with the princess in the castle keep. But the gate is guarded by thirty men.”

Yennefer considers the number a moment. “How many could you handle?”

There’s a shrug. “I don’t think more than twelve or thirteen, especially if they attack all at once.”

“That leaves at least seventeen for me,” Yennefer muses. “At my best, I could maybe do it, but like you say – not all at once.”

Renfri nods, dejected. She sinks down onto a bench, brushing shoulders with the mage. “I need Cahir to plan,” she decides. “I have less of a grasp on strategy than I’d like.”

Yennefer bumps the woman’s shoulder with her own. “I was here, waiting for him. We can wait together.”

“Yen,” Renfri says, smiling sadly and shaking her head a little. “Cahir’s dead. The man in black killed him.”

To that, the mage – normally so quick with her words – has nothing to say. They sit there a moment, silent and bereft, until the last part of Renfri’s words flicker through her again.

“Renfri,” Yennefer gasps, shooting to her feet with a wild glint in her eye. “You don’t need Cahir. You need the man in black.”

“What?”

“Look, he bested you with steel.” The mage starts to pace, waving her hands as she explains. “He bested me with power. He must have outthought Cahir, and a man who can do that can plan a castle’s onslaught any day. Let’s go.” She hauls the swordswoman to her feet.

Renfri goes slowly, though she’s already starting to look more enthused about finding the object of her revenge after all this time. “Do you know where he is?”

Yennefer waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t bother me with trifles. It’s the two of us now, we’ll find him quickly.”

“At last,” Renfri breathes, and by now there’s a full-on grin spreading across her lips to match the mage’s. “After twelve years, my mother’s soul will be at peace.” Her grin shifts a little, hanging more on the line of feral. “There will be blood tonight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, folks! It's twenty-five minutes after the day ended in my time zone, so just pretend! We're almost there, too! Just a few more and then an epilogue and voila!


	11. Chapter 11

It’s late by the time Istredd enters the princess’ chambers, kneeling in his place by the chair. The princess herself is seated, barely sparing him a glance as he scampers into the room.

Her eyes are trained on the dagger in her hand, the whetstone in the other emitting a small whine each time it’s dragged up the blade. “Report.”

“The Thieves’ Forest is emptied, sire,” Istredd recounts. “Thirty men guard the gate.”

Fringilla doesn’t react outwardly. “Double it,” she orders. “The prince must be safe.”

Istredd nods, then reaches into the pocket of his doublet to pull out a skeleton key. Finally, Fringilla sets down her dagger and looks at him. “The gate has but one key,” he explains, brandishing it before tucking it away safely. “And I carry it.”

He’s graced with a smirk for that information, but before anything can be said there’s the sound of footsteps entering the room. The prince is watching them, his hands clutching the lute he’s so absurdly fond of.

“Ah, Jaskier,” Fringilla starts, looking at him with a carefully neutral expression. “Tonight, we marry. Tomorrow morning, my men will escort us to the Great Road, where every rider in my cavalry waits to accompany us on our honeymoon.” The words taste bitter in her mouth.

Jaskier’s fingers twinge on the strings, plucking a sharp note. “Every rider but your four fastest, you mean.”

Fringilla frowns. “What?”

“Every rider but the four you sent.” Jaskier’s eyes have narrowed.

“Yes, yes,” the princess says after a moment, tone a bit harried. “Of course. Naturally, not those four.”

From behind her, Istredd grasps his chance to escape the tense situation. “Your majesties,” he says respectfully, bowing to each in turn before fleeing the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Jaskier turns on Fringilla with cold eyes. “You never sent the riders. Don’t bother lying,” he adds when Fringilla opens her mouth. “It doesn’t matter, Geralt will come for me anyway.”

The princess’ face twists. “You’re a foolish boy.”

“Yes, I am a foolish boy,” Jaskier agrees, words cutting as he steps closer. “For not having seen sooner that you were nothing but a coward with a heart full of malice.”

“I would not say such things if I were you,” Fringilla warns, voice dangerously low.

Heedless of the threat, Jaskier scoffs. “Why not? You can’t hurt me. Geralt and I are joined by the bonds of love.” His power, he knows, has always been his words, his poems. He uses those to his advantage now. “And you cannot track that. Not with a thousand bloodhounds. And you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords. When I say you are a coward, that is only because you are the most pathetic power-hungry weakling ever to crawl the Continent.”

Briefly, Jaskier wonders if he’d gone too far when the princess grabs his hair harshly, dragging him by his roots down the halls of the keep. He’s scrambling to keep up so it hurts less, his lute almost slipping from his fingers once or twice, but as the princess repeats her threat he decides that no, he does not regret it. Once this is over, once Geralt has come to save him – his thoughts pause as the princess snarls and throws him into his room, slamming the door and locking it so he can’t escape – he’s going to write the most scathing song the entire damn world about her.

From the other side of the door, Fringilla pauses, taking a moment to breathe and run over the words the prince had just shouted at her. Anger takes hold deep in her heart and she scowls, turning away from the door and breaking into a run, headed for the stables. In such a mood as this, people avoid her and in no time, she’s galloping up to the secret grove of trees, sliding off of her horse and storming through the illusion into the Pit of Despair.

Inside, she sees Geralt harnessed to the Machine, but it’s regretfully not on as Stregobor adds more notes to his book. He looks up as the Princess stomps down the stairs, the anger having settled into an even more deep-seated rage.

“You truly love each other,” he spits, coming up beside Geralt and looking the man in his unnatural yellow eyes. “And so, you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the songs say. So I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will.”

Her piece said, she whirls straight to the controls for the Machine, grabbing the lever and yanking it as high as it goes.

“Not to fifty!” Stregobor yells, standing and reaching out – but it’s too late. 

The lever settles into place at the top, and Fringilla watches in satisfaction as the man in black thrashes in his restraints, twisting as his face screws up into an expression of such pain that she can barely look. Both Stregobor and the Doppler watch on in wonder as the man’s back arches all the way up off of the board, even breaking one of his restraints. Despite the show of strength, a sound emerges from his throat, rattling and shrill and altogether horrifying.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Renfri grunts as she tries to shove her way through the crowd, all gathered on the fields outside of the walls of the city of Nilfgaard. She had forgotten that it’s the five hundredth anniversary of the country when she made her plan to search for the man in black.

Behind her, Yennefer freezes. Renfri turns immediately, seeing how the mage’s narrowed eyes scan the crowd as if searching for something.

“What is it?” she asks, stepping closer to try and let the stream of people go around them, instead of walking straight through.

“There’s a sound,” Yennefer responds, eyes zeroing in on the forest at the other end of the field. “It’s faint, but I can hear it. Pure anguish. It’s the sound I made when I underwent my transformation at Aretuza.”

Renfri wants to ask, but she knows now is not the time, instead filing it away for later. “Who is making it?”

“My money is on the man in black.” Yen’s jaw is set. “There’s a trace of magic in it. It matches the pattern he had when I fought him.”

Instantly, the swordswoman turns to look towards the forest as well. “Well then,” she decides, taking a step forward, the other woman falling in behind her. “Let’s go find him.”

The crowd parts around them, almost as if they can sense the haste with which the two women travel. Alternatively, Yennefer muses as she hitches up her skirt in order to keep up with her companion, it could be the terrifying visage of them charging through. They make quite a pair, Renfri with the set of her face determined and a hand on the hilt of her sword, not bothering to be polite as she forces her way through the throng of people.

Though, Yennefer admits, she’s not much better. Her dress has certainly seen better days, some of the tassels fraying at the ends, but her eyes spit fire at anyone who dares to get in their way. As it happens, no one makes any sort of move to stop them, and it’s not long before they reach the edge of the forest. They wander in further, in the general direction of where Yennefer had heard the cry from.

“How much farther?” Renfri groans when they’ve been walking half an hour, with no man in site. 

The mage shrugs, looking as the trees around them slowly change from normal deciduous woodland into more knotted, twisted trunks. “I don’t know,” she replies, taking in her surroundings. “It’s not like I was able to get an exact location.”

Renfri lets out a yell of frustration, kicking a stump. Yennefer winces in sympathy as the woman immediately curses at the impact.

“Well, it’s got to be around here somewhere,” she says encouragingly, only receiving an annoyed glare for her trouble.

“That’s not – “ Renfri starts, then whips her head around to stare deeper into the grove. Yennefer does the same, having heard the same creak of wheels the other woman had. The two of them look towards the other, each giving a quick nod before advancing towards the sound. As quietly as possible, Renfri draws her sword wile Yennefer lights up orbs of fire in her palms.

They advance slowly, when suddenly Renfri rushes with no warning, darting behind one of the gnarled trees. There’s a gasp, and when Yennefer catches up she sees a hideous creature crouched and holding a crude wheelbarrow, Renfri’s sword resting against its chest.

“Where’s the man in black?” she demands as Yen comes to stand beside her.

The thing doesn’t answer, face twisted into a snarl.

Renfri pushes forward with her sword, making the thing take a step back. “You get there from this grove, yes?” Her eyes are wild.

The creature’s, however, dart over to the tree they’re standing next to, before snapping back in an effort not to give itself away.

Yennefer places a hand on her companion’s shoulder, trying to hold her hand back before she strikes rashly. “We have what we need,” she says, and Renfri flicks her hair back, scoffing.

“I know, I saw. Now can I kill it, please?”

“That’s a Doppler, Ren,” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes and snuffing the fire she’d conjured up. “It’s only susceptible to silver.”

There’s a bark of a laugh from the other woman, and the sword is lowered a bit. The doppler watches warily. As Renfri steps back and sheathes the blade.  
“Well, that’s a pity,” she bemoans, but her tone says otherwise. “Luckily, I’ve got just the thing.”

Yennefer blinks at the hilt of a dagger sticking suddenly out of the creature’s chest, Renfri having struck as quick as a viper and plunged her smaller weapon into its figure. She watches as the woman yanks the blade back out, the hole it left smoking before the lifeless corpse collapses into a pile of dust. Silver, then.

The mage hums, taking in the heap of grey residue once more before turning to the tree. She closes her eyes, concentrating.

“What is it?” Renfri asks, appearing at her shoulder with the dagger safely back in its hilt.

Yennefer exhales, opening her eyes. “It’s an illusion,” she responds, waving her hand and watching the edges of the mirage flicker into sight. “We can just walk through.”

Nodding once, Renfri adjusts her belt and steps forward, disappearing into the water-like rectangle suspended just over the forest floor. Not one to be outdone, Yennefer follows quickly, finding herself at the top of some dim stairs that by the sounds of things, the other woman is already rushing down.

“Ren, wait!” Yennefer calls, cursing and hoisting her skirts even higher before to run down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom, letting the fabric fall and swish around her feet once more, she steps gracefully across the uneven floor to where Renfri stands silently next to the man in black, staring down at his prone form strapped to some sort of machine.

Pushing the woman out of the way, Yennefer reaches for the man’s wrist and holding it for a few moments before dropping it back to the board he’s laying on. She shakes her head, unable to look Renfri in the eye.

“Dead?” comes her weak voice, full of despair. There’s the sound of someone slumping against the wall, and Yennefer closes her eyes. “It’s just not fair.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

“Vesemir, Vesemir, wait,” Ciri cries, sitting up more than she has all day. “What did Renfri mean, ‘dead’? I mean, she can’t mean he’s dead!”

Vesemir says nothing, just sits and watches Ciri patiently.

She frowns, looking almost as upset as the women in the story. “Geralt’s only faking, right?”

“You want me to read this, or not?”

“Who gets Fringilla?” Ciri demands, and the old man frowns. 

“I don’t understand.”

The little princess huffs in frustration. “Who kills Princess Fringilla? At the end, somebody’s got to do it. Is it Yennefer? Who?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “Nobody,” he responds, making Ciri gape. “Nobody kills her. She lives.”

Ciri is worked up now, and she can’t bring herself to calm down. “You mean she wins?” she asks incredulously. “Sweet Melitele, Vesemir! What did you read me this thing for?”

“You know, you’ve been very sick and you’re taking this story very seriously. I think we better stop now.” The man closes the book and starts to rise from his chair.

Desperately, Ciri flings out a hand to stop him, nearly tumbling out of her bed. “No! I’m okay!” she shouts, shaking her head frantically. “I’m okay.” She gestures at the chair. “Sit down, alright?”

Vesemir eyes her appraisingly, and although Ciri knows her grandmother would be ashamed at her pleading, she doesn’t care at this moment.

“Alright,” the man says after a daunting few seconds, sitting back down and opening the book again, making the princess sigh in relief. “Now, let’s see. Where were we? Oh, yes. In the Pit of Despair.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

It takes almost three minutes for Renfri to start breathing normally – Yennefer is counting – but then she pushes herself off of the wall and comes back to stand by the board, looking down at the man in black’s body.

“Well,” she starts, and her voice has some forced optimism in it. “We Creydenians have never taken defeat easily. Come along, Yen,” she gestures, heading back towards the stairs. “Bring the body.”

Yennefer frowns. “The body?”

Renfri doesn’t stop, already halfway up the steps. “Have you got any coin?”

“I have a little,” the mage responds, removing the straps from around the man’s form.

The other woman hums, pausing on the stairs to look down at her companion’s progress. Yennefer’s already got all the restraints off, and makes a complicated motion with her hands that causes the man to levitate off of the board and float towards the stairs.

“I just hope it’s enough to buy a miracle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to the end now! I don't have a beta, so my plan is to basically get everything written and have a brief read-through of every chapter before posting, but once they're all up I'm going to go back and fix any mistakes or awkward phrasings.
> 
> At any rate, I've really enjoyed writing again, and I'd really like to continue. One of my main issues has always been inspiration, so would any of you be up for supplying me with prompts? Maybe I'll open asks on my Tumblr for requests/prompts too, what do you think? And not just the Witcher, honestly I'm down to do anything. Does that sound like something anyone would be interested in?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! This one has actually been my favourite to write so far. Enjoy!

They reach the place by dusk. It’s a hovel, worn down and dirty on the outside, but when Renfri knocks at the door it sounds surprisingly solid.

“Leave,” comes a voice from within the shack, resonating with power. Yennefer blanches. 

“We can’t be here,” she says suddenly, reaching out to grab the other woman and pull her back. “We have to go.”

Renfri frowns at the urgency in her companion’s voice. “We can’t,” she argues, pounding at the door again. “I’ve waited twelve years for this. I’m not letting the one chance I get slip between my fingers.”

Yennefer shifts on her feet uneasily, eyes skimming over the man in black floating beside her before snapping back to the swordswoman hammering away at the door. She tries again. “We have to go before – “

“Yennefer.”

She freezes.

The voice is the same as the one which had uttered the earlier command, and although it’s not as thundering it still as powerful.

Yennefer drags her gaze up, past Renfri who’s looking at her questioningly to stare straight at the open door and the figure standing in the doorway, hair still tied back in that stern bun and collar as high as ever.

“Tissaia.”

Renfri swivels her head between the two. “You know each other?” she asks incredulously, then blinks and shakes her head. “Actually, never mind. We don’t have time. Can you heal this man?” She points at the man whose name still stubbornly eludes her.

The woman’s eyes flicker over her, cold and assessing, before taking in the man with a calculating gaze.

“I cannot,” she says eventually, and Renfri’s shoulders slump until the woman speaks again. “I do, however, know someone who can. Come inside.”

Yennefer still seems wary, though she makes no move to stop them from following the woman over the threshold, the three newcomers immediately washed with light from a hearth that seems far to big to be inside the hovel they’d approached. In fact, the whole room seems too large.

“Magic,” Yennefer whispers, an edge to her voice that’s been there ever since she heard the first word uttered from within this place. Renfri raises her eyebrows, about to point out that Yennefer has magic too, when the woman from before speaks again.

“You may lay him here,” she announces, gesturing towards the large table that’s been cleared of any dishes or miscellaneous items. Her eyes flicker to her guests. “Yennefer, you’ve not introduced us.”

The aforementioned mage grumbles, directing the man in black to float over onto the cleared surface. “Renfri, meet Tissaia de Vries,” she introduces, pulling out a chair and collapsing in it. “Rectress of Aretuza, and all that nonsense.”

“ _Former_ rectress,” Tissaia corrects, diplomatically ignoring the rest of the statement as she goes to examine the man laid out on her table. “It is an honour to meet a princess of Creyden.”

“ _Former_ princess,” Renfri retorts in the same tone as the woman had used. “And, hang on, how do you know who I am?”

Tissaia looks up at her with those sharp eyes, nodding once toward the brooch pinned to her chest. Renfri’s hand automatically goes to cover it. 

“I assume you are searching for Stregobor.” The name sounds bitter on the woman’s tongue. “But what business do you have with Geralt of Rivia?”

Renfri glances towards Yennefer, who shrugs, still reclining in her chair. She doesn’t give off the impression that she’ll be much help at the moment, so she turns back to the mage before her. “You know who this is?”

“I make it my business to know these things,” Tissaia responds, seemingly satisfied with her inspection of the man’s body. She steps away and is silent for a moment. “He is the current Butcher of Blaviken. I ask you again: what is your business with him?”

There’s another small silence. “I need his help,” Renfri says at last, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it. “I can’t get to Stregobor alone, even with Yennefer.”

The dark-haired mage huffs at being mentioned in the conversation.

“I see.” Tissaia looks like she sees to much, and it takes everything in Renfri not to squirm at being the attention of such intense scrutiny. Before she can react, however, there’s a flurry at one of the doors leading out of the main room and another woman comes into sight, all wavy hair and jewel-blue robes.

“Geralt!” the new mage cries – for that’s what she must be – and rushes to the table. “What happened to him?”

“Stregobor,” Yennefer answers before Renfri can. “Not sure what he did, but it killed him.”

The mage examines the man for a moment, before stepping back and reaching for a bowl set above the fireplace. “I’ve seen worse,” she says, gathering some herbs that hang from the rafters of the ceiling and returning to the table. “And he’s not dead, just mostly there. But not beyond my reach.”

Renfri shifts, placing her hand on her hilt for lack of a better place to go. Tissaia eyes her carefully, but she’s not outright threatening anyone yet. “Can you help him…?”

“It’s Triss,” the woman responds, and waves away the bag of coin Renfri pulls out, squandered from what Yennefer and her had between them. “You can put that away. He’s a friend, I don’t charge for friends.”

Renfri frowns. “And how do you know him?”

“The Butcher of Blaviken has made quite a name for himself,” Tissaia murmurs, watching the other woman work.

Triss glances up quickly, brow furrowed at the title. “He’s helped me out a few times,” she answers, now grinding the herbs into a paste. Already, Renfri can tell that she’s the more useful, and amicable, of the two. “It’s my turn to return the favour. I’ve saved him from worse injuries.”

She’s still a bit on edge, but Renfri gives in with a small nod, looking behind her and dropping into a seat next to Yennefer’s to watch the mage work. Surprisingly, she doesn’t do the whole thing by herself, offering Tissaia portions of whatever concoctions she’s brewing for the older woman to mutter incantations over.

“Of all the places, you had to come here,” comes a voice from beside her, and Renfri twists in her seat to look at Yennefer. Her companion looks more irritated than angry, but there seems to be a fine line between the two emotions when it comes to the purple-eyed sorceress.

“It seemed like the best option,” Renfri tries to explain. “I’d heard tell of a healer who worked in Foltest’s court taking up residence near the city of Nilfgaard. I thought it would be our best shot. And they’re helping us, aren’t they?” 

Yennefer just huffs again, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Renfri turns to better see her. “Why don’t you like them, anyway?”

“It’s a long story,” Yen sighs. “With a lot of complicated and convoluted chapters. Essentially, I disagreed with the things that were done and taught to us at Aretuza.” She nods towards Tissaia. “Triss, I’ve never met before today. Just heard tell of her, like you have.”

“Why’d she leave Temeria, I wonder.”

“Threat of war.” Yennefer shrugs. “King Foltest was mobilising his army in case of an attack, last I heard. I don’t know. I cut my ties with the Brotherhood a long time ago.”

Renfri smirks. “So instead you’ve been making a living as a hired mercenary?”

There’s an exhale that sounds like a laugh from the other woman. “I guess so.” She pauses, eyes flickering with reflected firelight as she turns more fully to her companion. “What Cahir said in the boat, calling me a drunk… well, it wasn’t entirely inaccurate.” 

The other woman frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I lost something,” Yennefer responds, her voice quiet as she looks down at the floor. “A choice. Something I hadn’t thought about losing until I did, at a cost.” She stops again, reminiscing. “I went looking for solutions, for answers. When I didn’t find any – I mean, you saw me. Easier to forget the pain if you’re slobbering drunk.”

Renfri considers the words, following Yen’s gaze to the floor. “I can understand that,” she sympathizes. “I’ve been so focused on my own pain for twelve years. I can’t imagine doing it as long as you have.”

She feels a hand on her shoulder, then. Looking up, it’s to see Yennefer’s purple eyes meeting her own green ones, a smile passing over the woman’s face.

“All the more reason to put your demons to rest, then.” 

There’s another pause where Renfri returns the smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yen says, removing her hand to lean back in her chair, deceivingly nonchalantly. “After all, you’re the one desperate to run to their death.”

Just like that, the moment is over. It’s not forced, though, Renfri can still feel the warmth from their conversation even as her smile transitions into a grin. “I’m not going to die,” she quips back. “At least, not until I have the son of bitch’s blood on my hands and his body at my feet.”

Yennefer grins back, sharp and dangerous. “That’s the spirit.”

They lapse again into comfortable silence, the room filled only with the noise of the crackling hearth and the two mages working on the man in black’s body.

“There,” comes Triss’ voice, maybe twenty minutes later.

Renfri shoots to her feet, Yennefer rising far more gracefully behind her. “He’s cured?”

“Not fully, not yet,” Triss responds, pouring some murky-looking liquid into a glass vial. “He’s still unconscious, but I’ve mended his body. His stomach just needs to settle before he wakes up. It should take about an hour.” She hands the vial to Tissaia, who passes her hand over the contents with a whispered word before corking the top.

“This is the potion to wake him,” she says, passing it Renfri, who takes it carefully.

“We’d recommend you stay,” Triss urges in her lilting voice. “The process was tricky, even for me. Once you’ve woken him, he may not regain full use of his limbs immediately.”

Renfri stares at the vial dubiously, before passing it to Yennefer to inspect. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Triss, but well… she doesn’t fully trust Triss. “That’s alright,” she decides after a moment of consideration. “It’s his strategy I need primarily. The rest can come later.”

Triss sighs, sounding defeated, but she inclines her head in agreement. “Very well,” she says, eyes flickering over to Yennefer who’s done inspecting the bottle, passing it back to Renfri with a quick nod.

Renfri pockets it immediately, tilting her head towards the man in black – Geralt, she remembers – and signalling for Yennefer to lift him again. She does, stepping forward with an exaggerated put-upon expression.

“Thank you,” Renfri address the two other mages, and it’s sincere. “If I can ever repay you – “

“We will find you,” Tissaia cuts her off, and the wording is slightly eerie. “Now go. Take your revenge. But be careful: neither Stregobor nor the princess Fringilla are easily intimidated.”

Yennefer has the man in the air by now, waiting expectantly by the door with her gaze sharply watching Tissaia’s every move. Renfri goes to join her, glancing back once at Triss whose expression still holds notes of concern. 

“Good luck,” she calls as the trio step through the doorway. “When Geralt wakes, tell him to return to me for a check-up.” She stops, thinking better of her idea. “Actually, no. Tell Jaskier. If what I heard of him is true, he’ll be the more reliable of the two when it comes to health and safety.”

Renfri grins at that, thinking back to the prince on the boat, mouthy and unconcerned for himself. She’s not sure he’s as careful as the woman seems to think he is, but then again, maybe that’s only regarding himself. Around others, perhaps he’s more concerned.

With a final wave, she steps through the door and out into the rapidly darkening woods, joining Yennefer as the mage looks towards the lights flickering in the distance. They’re not too far away, and Renfri is sure they can reach the city limits before nightfall has well and truly hit.

“Well,” she starts, hand back on her sword hilt and body almost vibrating with adrenaline. “Are we ready?”

Yennefer smirks. “I guess we’ll find out.”

With that, they set off towards the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next one! We keep getting closer to the end, folks!  
> I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter, since it allowed to play a bit more with Renfri and Yennefer's characters, and I also got to include Triss who I love unconditionally! And, aside from a basic plot point of what needed to happen, I was able to be a bit more creative with this chapter.
> 
> In the last chapter notes I commented that I'd love to do some more writing after this, so if anyone has any fun ideas, please send them my way!


	13. Chapter 13

They make it just after nightfall. The three of them are settled atop the outer wall of the castle, Yennefer having distracted the patrols enough for them to get a good position looking down towards the castle gate.

Renfri peers over the edge, and curses, ducking back down.

“Yen – there’s more than thirty,” she says, turning to look towards where the mage is trying to settle the man in black into a semi-upright position against the wall.

“So?” the mage hisses back, indicating the man who’s just slumped onto her shoulder. “We’ve got him. Help me out, we’ll have to force the potion down his throat.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Renfri grumbles, drawing out the thankfully unbroken vial from one of her pockets.

Yennefer tilts his head back and opens his mouth before a thought crosses her mind. “Wait, has it been an hour?”

“We can’t wait,” Renfri retorts, uncorking the vial. “The wedding is in thirty minutes and we’ve got to strike before then.”

The mage hums, holding the man’s head to the side so Renfri can carefully pour the potion down the man’s throat, waiting a second for reflexes to take over and the man to swallow. 

“How long do we have to wait before we know if the potion works?”

Renfri puts the cork back into the now empty bottle, placing it to the side so it’s not in their way. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies, glancing back up and over the edge of the wall.

She’s about to turn back around and start prodding Yennefer for ideas, when a new voice, gruff and low, beats her to the chase.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yennefer and Renfri glance at each other, before the mage shrugs. “Guess it doesn’t take very long.”

The man glares between the two of them. “Why won’t my arms move?” His voice is practically a growl, and if the man wasn’t immobile, it would have been a bit more intimidating.

“You’ve been mostly dead all day,” Yennefer supplies helpfully, catching the glare the other woman sends her way. “What? He was!”

Renfri rolls her eyes, turning back to the man. “Listen, Geralt. It’s Geralt, right?” There’s a nod. “Right, well, we found you in the Pit, and took you to Triss to be healed.”

“Triss?” the man – Geralt – repeats, looking around. “Is she here?”

“No, it’s just us,” the swordswoman responds, readjusting Geralt’s head from where it’s slipped down to rest at an awkward angle.

His eyes meet hers. “Who are you?” he asks, then glances towards the mage. “Wait, no. I fought you. Why am I on this wall? Where’s Jaskier?”

Yennefer puts up her hand to stop the barrage of questions. “Let me explain,” she starts, then shakes her head. “No, there’s too much. Let me sum up.” She nods towards the gate on the other side of the wall. “Jaskier is marrying Fringilla in a little less than half an hour,” she says, watching as the man’s eyes flash.

“All we have to do is get in,” Renfri adds. “Break up the wedding, rescue the prince, and escape once I’ve killed Stregobor.”

Geralt seems to consider this. “Doesn’t give us much time, does it.” He’s watching his fingers, a couple of them twitching from where they lay across his chest.

“You just wiggled your fingers!” Yennefer exclaims, picking up his hand to examine it. “That’s good. Soon you’ll be as good as new.”

He grunts. “I’ve always been a quick healer.” His attention shifts then, back onto Renfri. “What are our liabilities?”

“There’s only one working castle gate,” she returns quickly, helping Yennefer to hoist him up so he can see over the ledge himself. “It’s guarded by at least sixty men, if my counting is correct.”

“And our assets?”

Renfri grins. “Your brains, Yennefer’s magic, my steel.”

Geralt gapes for a moment, absolutely stunned at the information he’s just received. The two women lower him back down to lean against the wall, shooting each other a concerned look.

“That’s it?” he asks eventually. “Fuck. If I had a week to plan, or all my strength, maybe. But this?” He shakes his head from side to side, albeit somewhat jerkily. 

“Hey!” Yennefer exclaims in a loud stage whisper, trying to be at least somewhat cheery so her friend doesn’t fall apart. “You just shook your head! That’s more progress!”

“Hmm,” comes the less than elaborate reply. He shifts his head to stare at her. “My brains, her steel, and your magic against sixty men, and you think a little head jiggle is supposed to make me happy?”

Yennefer shrugs. “Someone needed to lighten the mood. I’ll never make the mistake again.”

The man grunts in assent, and the mage rolls her eyes. “If only we had some sort of holocaust cape, that would be something.”

Silence falls again, and Renfri feels like kicking something.

“Wait,” Yennefer breaks the silence, eyes bright. “Holocaust cape? You mean one that’s fire-resistant?”

Both Renfri and Geralt stare at her for a second.

Yen swallows. “I’ve got one of those, let me just…” She twists the fingers of her right hand, and a small portal opens up about a foot in front of her. She reaches is and withdraws her hand a second before the portal snaps shut, a wad of thick, black fabric clutched in her fist.

Renfri continues to stare.

Geralt, on the other hand, look unimpressed. “If you can portal, why can’t you just get us in there?”

“The whole keep is warded. I can’t,” Yennefer snaps back, throwing the cloth at him as her own form of petty revenge. “You’re welcome, by the way. Here’s your stupid cape.”

“All right, all right,” Geralt sighs. “Come on, help me up.”

Renfri snaps out of her daze and grabs the man’s right side, Yennefer taking the left. Together, they hoist him up between them.

Geralt hums at his position. “I’m going to need a sword eventually.”

“Why?” Renfri asks. “It’s not like you can lift one.”

“True, but that’s not common knowledge, is it?” His head lolls back, Yennefer helpfully setting it back straight. A mumbled thanks is uttered, making the mage snort. 

“There’s going to be problems once we get inside, she says, keeping a hand on the back of Geralt’s neck to support it.

Renfri snorts. “I’ll say. How do I find Stregobor? And once I do, how do I find you again? Once I find you again, how do we escape?”

They’re moving along the wall now, as quietly as possible. Geralt turns his head slightly in Yennefer’s grasp. “We’ll figure that out later,” he hisses. “Right now, what’s important is getting inside and rescuing Jaskier.”

“And killing Stregobor,” Yennefer supplies.

Geralt nods slightly. “And that.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________

In any other occasion, Jaskier would be preening like a peacock. He’s about to get married, his doublet and trousers are of the finest cream silk to be found, sewn with gold and blue embroidery and topped off with pearl buttons. If it was another occasion, he’d probably be excited, jumping around with all the pent-up energy. Now, though, he’s still. Resigned.

Fringilla steps up in front of him, adjusting the sit of his collar. “You don’t seem excited,” she notes, though it sounds like she doesn’t particularly care.

Jaskier watches her carefully. “Should I be?”

“Grooms often are, I’m told.”

“I do not marry tonight,” Jaskier inform her, gently, but with full confidence. “My Geralt will save me.”

Fringilla takes a step back, the cruel twist to her mouth even more pronounced than usual. “I very much doubt that, princeling.” Ignoring the scathing look Jaskier sends her way, she marches towards the chamber doors and yanks them open, revealing the rows of guards lining the halls all the way to the chapel. “Shall we?”

Swallowing once, but determined to squander what little pride he has left, Jaskier follows one step behind as she leads the way. As they go, he refuses to look around him no matter how big the temptation, ignoring the curious looks some of the less well-trained guards throw at him. It’s a long walk, and by the time they reach the doors of the chapel he’s already exhausted from the pretense that everything is fine.

The first glimpse he gets of the decked-out chapel is from over Fringilla’s shoulder, having stopped to wait so that he can fall in step with her as they walk down the aisle, as is tradition in Nilfgaard. A sick feeling settles in Jaskier’s stomach, but he still stubbornly clings to the shreds of hope he has left even as he kneels before the priestess at the far end of the grand room.

He refuses to raise his eyes from beyond the area of the priestess’ skirt, not wanting to see the old king or – even worse – Fringilla’s rather creepy right-hand man. He wants this to be over, preferably by having Geralt crash through the doors, sword in hand.

“We are brought together today to celebrate the bonds of marriage,” the priestess begins her spiel, and even though Jaskier can’t see her face the voice tells him that she’s an older woman, matured into her role. “The sacrament to bind two souls together.”

There’s a bang. Jaskier frowns, wanting to turn, but the noise sounded muffled enough that it’s not from within the chapel itself. Beside him, Fringilla shifts.

“Stand your ground, men!” comes a shout, and it’s just as muffled as the first noise, but followed by the sounds of a scuffle. “Stand your ground!”

“It is a sacrament which encourages true unity,” the priestess ploughs on, a little louder than before, though Jaskier’s mostly tuned her out. He assumes most of the congregation has done the same, if the closer sound of murmuring he can hear amidst the crashes and commotion from outside is anything to go by. He lifts his head a little, just in time to see the princess nod at Stregobor, who responds with a nod of his own and rushes off. Jaskier’s heart sinks.

In front of him, the priestess is still droning on.

“You must cherish this bond – “

“Skip to the end,” Fringilla spits, earning herself a glare from the priestess, who then quails under the harsher one the princess shoots right back at her.

“But, your highness – “

“Just do it!”

“Very well,” she sighs reluctantly. “Have you the ring?”

Fringilla whips out the ring from somewhere about her person glaring at Jaskier when the screams from outside grow louder. There’s a shout, and a word that Jaskier thinks is supposed to be ‘portcullis’, but he’s not sure. Regardless, he fixes the princess with a steely gaze.

“Here comes my Geralt now.”

Grabbing his hand and shoving the ring indelicately onto his third finger, Fringilla scowls. “Your Geralt is dead,” she hisses, teeth clenched. “I killed him myself.”

Jaskier raises his eyes to meet hers defiantly. “Then why is there fear behind your eyes?”

Fringilla is glowering dangerously, now.

“And do you, Prince Jaskier…” the priestess tries to continue with some semblance of ceremony, but the princess is having none of it.

“Woman and groom, say woman and groom!” she spits, fighting hard to keep her voice under control while they’re still in the chapel and surrounded by the congregation.

The priestess looks like she’s about to argue, but thinks better of it. She sighs. “Woman and groom.”

Jaskier’s gaze snaps up at her pronouncement, barely noticing Fringilla shove him towards the old king.

“Escort the groom to the honeymoon suite,” she orders, which would be humorous under other circumstances, the princess ordering the king about, but right now it still holds water. “I’ll be there shortly. Go!” Without sparing her new husband a glance, she runs off.

A hand slips into the crook of Jaskier’s elbow to lead him away, but he’s still busy gaping at the priestess, mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he’s able to string together a coherent sentence.

“He didn’t come,” he whispers, disbelief still clinging to the edges of his mind even as the harsh reality sets in. Dazed, he allows himself to be led away.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

As soon as they’ve reached the gate, Geralt shrugs off the still-smoldering cloak, supporting Yennefer just as much as she’s supporting him. Keeping him in the air for that long – while maintaining a repellant around them both – cost her a lot of energy, and it’s evident in her form. Her eyes, however, still blaze with determination.

“Give us the gate key,” Renfri demands, stepping up to the captain of the guard, the only one who hasn’t run away and isn’t dead.

The man – Istredd, if Renfri remembers correctly from the Thieves’ Forest earlier that day – gives her the best innocent expression he’s got. “I have no gate key.”

Renfri rolls her eyes.

“Slit his throat,” Geralt suggests from her left, leant dually against Yennefer and the gate.

“Gladly,” comes her answer, drawing her silver dagger and whipping it up to hold at the man’s neck.

The man’s pale eyes go wide and a sharp scent fills the air, making her wrinkle her nose as she realises that he’s pissed himself in his fear.

“You mean this gate key?” His hand dips inside his tunic, fingers trembling as he pulls out an iron key on a chain. Renfri snatches it from his grasp, giving him a feral smile before slitting his throat anyway, lest he attack the, later. She throws him bodily to the side, still choking on his own blood, and steps up to insert the key in the lock.

“You didn’t have to threaten him if you were just going to kill him anyway,” Yennefer admonishes as the key turns in the lock with a scraping noise.

Renfri grins, tossing her hair back and pulling the gate open. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

Yennefer and Geralt share a glance, but follow the woman through the doorway. Quietly, the three unlikely companions slip inside the keep, slamming the gate closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the end game now! Only two more chapters to go - and, as a little add-on - a special epilogue that's not from the movie! The whole thing should be finished by Friday!


	14. Chapter 14

If Renfri had been alone, she would have long blazed ahead on her own terms to hunt down Stregobor. As it is, she’s moving at a snail’s crawl, Yennefer slowly regaining her strength and dragging the man in black with her, a sword stolen from the captain of the guard trailing along the floor behind them, loosely gripped in his slack arm.

She can understand the need for a weapon, a sense of security – but even though he’s building back his dexterity bit by bit it will be a little while before he can move fully on his own.

Up ahead, there’s the patter of rushing footsteps.

“Wait!” she calls to the others, slipping into a fighting stance and raising her blade.

At the end of the hall a small group comes into view, four soldiers and –

Renfri’s eyes narrow. “Stregobor.”

The man raises his eyebrows at her recognition, but makes no indication of recognising her. Instead, he stands a little straighter and gestures at his men.

“Kill the dark one and the witch, but leave the third for questioning,” he commands, and immediately the soldiers advance upon their prey.

Renfri goes wild. The soldiers might be good, perhaps better than that – but none of them stand a chance against the swordswoman now that her target is in sight. She’s mad, and her sword has never flashed faster, the fourth soldier is dead before the first even hits the floor.

Quietly, she stands amidst her carnage and looks Stregobor straight in the eye.

“Hello.” Her voice is calm, but there’s waves of rage settled just beneath. “My name is Renfri of Creyden. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

Stregobor’s eyes widen, and for a moment he just stands there, sword in hand. Renfri raises her own, ready to finally begin the battle she’s been working towards for over a decade. Before she can attack, however, the man does something she hadn’t expected. He runs away.

Momentarily stunned, it takes Renfri a second to recalibrate, but as soon as she has she’s off like a whip, sprinting towards the end of the hall just as Stregobor slams the door in her face. She hears the lock click even as she throws herself against it.

“Yennefer!” she yells, her voice travelling to the purple-eyed mage halfway down the hall, still supporting Geralt. “Yen, I need you!” She pounds on the wood to no avail.

“I can’t just leave him!” she hollers back, indicating Geralt.

“He’s getting away from me, Yen!” Renfri shouts, voice taking on a tone of desperation as she frantically pounds at the door. “Please!”

Yennefer sighs, moving Geralt to lean against the wall to support his weight. “Stay,” she orders, and he shoots her an unimpressed look. Before he can respond, she’s already rushing to the end of the hall, skirts whishing about her legs as she goes.

Renfri feels the mage’s hand at her shoulder, pulling her back before she can try and ram the door again. Instead, Yennefer places a hand over the lock. There’s a pop, and she swings the door open with a dramatic flourish.

“Thank you!” she calls behind her, already taking off without waiting to hear the other woman’s response. There will be time for that later, right now she only has a single objective in mind.

Yen shakes her head in exasperation, heading back to where she’d left Geralt, only to pull up short a few yards away. She blinks, looking down the corridors on either side, but he’s nowhere to be found. With a groan of frustration, she throws her hands up and starts down a corridor at random.

Down another hall, Renfri’s legs are burning as she races down a flight of steps, but she can’t bring herself to even pay it a second thought. Up ahead, there’s a snap of Stregobor’s tunic as he rounds a corner, the woman racing after him with a vengeance.

The man glances back as he sees her take the corner behind him, barely slowing in her pursuit. The floor has leveled out, but Stregobor darts to a winding stairway. All of Renfri’s instincts tell her to slow down, to be careful when going down a space with multiple blind spots, but she ignores the warning and speeds up, taking the steps three at a time and pushing off the cylindrical walls to keep her balance, jumping down the last few stairs and landing just inside what looks to be a banquet hall. Something hits her in the gut and she stumbles back, the air punched out of her as she backs into a wall.

In front of her, Stregobor’s hand is still outstretched from where he’d thrown the dagger.

Renfri looks down as she slowly slides down the wall, seeing the hilt sticking out of her stomach and a puddle of red starting to spread from the spot.

“Sorry, mother…” she whispers, her eyes glazed over as the man straightens to take her in. “I tried…”

Stregobor’s eyes trace the scars on her cheeks, and all of a sudden a spark of recognition ignites across his face. “You must be that little Creydenian brat I taught a lesson to all those years ago,” he says, sounding far too delighted. “It’s simply incredible. Tell me, have you been chasing me your whole life only to fail now? I think that’s the worst thing I ever heard! How marvelous.”

Renfri hits the floor.

Stregobor takes a step forward, watching her scramble at the bricks in the wall. His face takes on a surprised expression, though it’s not wholly unpleased.

“My goodness,” he exclaims as she struggles feebly to pull herself up. “Are you still trying to win?”

Tears have gathered in Renfri’s eyes and she blinks them away, yanking the dagger out of her stomach and pressing a hand against the wound. The blade, thankfully, is small, and she can’t smell anything that would indicate it ruptured any major organs. 

In front of her, Stregobor picks his sword up and advances forward, watching her with those shifty eyes as he does so. 

“You’ve got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance,” he tells her conversationally, giving his sword an experimental swing. “It’s going to get you in trouble some day.”

He strikes, and it takes all that Renfri has in her to parry the blade, though she can’t do much other than parry it to cut into her shoulder rather than her chest. Annoyed, Stregobor tries again, only to get deflected to the other shoulder.

Taking a step back, Stregobor seems to reconsider his position as Renfri finally gets her feet underneath her, pushing off from the wall to stand on her own and inching forward with tiny steps. He doesn’t seem put out by the new positioning, merely intrigued, the same cocky confidence still oozing from his stance. 

Just before he’s about to strike again, she’s able to flick her hand and manage a small thrust. It’s not overly powerful, but it certainly wasn’t expected. Stregobor jumps back, letting out a small involuntary cry of surprise.

Renfri takes another cautious step forward. “Hello,” she begins again, voice barely audible. The wounds in her stomach and shoulders throb, but she can barely feel them. “Hello. My name is Renfri of Creyden. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

Stregobor’s face twists. He lets out a yell, going into a fierce attack and striking with as much power and precision as he can muster. He forces Renfri back easily, back into the wall, but his eyes narrow when he’s not able to penetrate her quick defences. None of the blows hit home and he steps back a moment, reconsidering.

A flare of determination rises up in Renfri, stronger than before, and she pushes off of the wall again.

“Hello. My name is Renfri of Creyden.” Her voice is lower this time, rising in strength and the tremors have already disappeared. “You killed my mother. Prepare to die.”

Stregobor snarls, attacking again, slashing with all of his built-up skill. Still, none of his blows get through and Renfri moves forward.

She’s concentrating now, the sweat on her brow and upper lip not just from the shock of the injuries sustained, but from focusing on her goal. It’s finally in sight, and she won’t let anything stop her now.

“Hello. My name is Renfri of Creyden. You killed my mother. Prepare to die.” Her voice has grown even louder and her strength has returned, but despite the yell she’s calm internally. It’s new, she’d always thought that this final battle to put an end to her suffering would bring with it more intense emotions, but instead it’s as if she’s tranquil, focused on her task without the threat of rage overpowering her skill with rash behaviour.

“Stop saying that!” Stregobor spits, and unlike her, she can see that he’s succumbing to his inner turmoil. A grin slips onto her lips as she realises, the man cursing and retreating quickly to around the table.

Renfri strikes, driving for the man’s left shoulder now. Her sword thrusts home and hits its target, right where Stregobor had gotten her moments before, leaning weakly against the wall. An idea hits her and she lunges for the other shoulder, giving him matching wounds to hers.

“Hello!” She’s shouting now. “My name is Renfri of Creyden! You killed my mother! Prepare to die!”

“No – “ the man gasps, forced back against the table at the end of the hall as Renfri advances.

“Yes,” she smirks back at him, and it’s wild at the edges, feral. “Offer me money.”

He glares fire at her, but seems desperate himself, now. “Yes,” comes the reply through gritted teeth.

Renfri knocks the sword out of his hand and slashes his cheek in parallel to hers. “Power too,” she demands. “Promise me that.”

Stregobor watches her warily. “All that I have and more.”

She cuts his other cheek, settling back into a comfortable stance and raising her left hand from her stomach, bloody and dripping as she spreads her arms, the right one still holding the tip of her sword up against the man’s chest.

“Offer me everything I ask for.”

“Anything you want,” the man swears, wheedling, and Renfri sees white.

She snarls. “I want my mother back, you son of a bitch.”

As the final word leaves her mouth she lunges, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Her sword strikes true one final time and Stregobor cries out in fear and panic, the blade piercing his chest dead-centre with such force that it sticks through the other end, emerging bloody from his back.

Time seems to stop for a moment and the two remain frozen in position, until Renfri sneers and withdraws her sword. 

Stregobor coughs, blood bubbling up between his lips as he teeters on unbalanced legs before toppling over, pitching first to his knees and the onto the floor, sprawled across the tiles with blood still dripping from his mouth and the parallel cuts on his cheeks, eyes wide with fear but unseeing.

Renfri stands there, staring down at the corpse of the man who had tormented her thoughts and plagued her dreams all these years, a sense of grim satisfaction taking over and replacing the earlier rage and subsequent determination inside of her. Somewhere, in the halls of her soul, a blackened piece seems to lift of, peeling away and shrinking into nothing. 

The final piece of darkness gone, her mouth opens to form the biggest smile she can remember making, wide and slightly unhinged but no less full of complete satisfaction. She knows that there is still a tinge of grief in her, but for now, seeing the still body of the man who had killed her mother spread lifeless at her feet is enough.

Bending down slightly, she wipes her sword clean on the expensive fabric of Stregobor’s marred cloak, sliding the blade back into its sheath and taking one last look at the face of her enemy. A part of her hopes he’s found by a great mob of people, all of them able to witness her marks against his form before he’s taken away to be buried, or better yet, burned.

Her eyes trace the cuts on his cheeks and somehow her grin widens even more, before she turns on her heel and dashes back towards the stairs she had come down, the wounds in her shoulders and stomach throbbing a bit more insistently now. She ignores them still; this chapter of her life may have finally closed but she still needs to find the others before she can rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! Only one chapter and the little epilogue left, guys! My guess is they'll be up sometime tonight or early tomorrow. We're almost there!


	15. Chapter 15

Jaskier is boring holes in his feet by the time he makes it to the honeymoon suite, closing the door behind him for what he’s determined will be the last time. He’s still in a bit of a daze that Geralt hadn’t come, Fringilla’s cruel words still rattling around in his mind. Steeling his resolve, he pushes off of the door and crosses quietly to the far wall, sitting down at the vanity and reaching for an ornate box atop it.

Hands resolutely _not_ shaking, he lifts the lid and pulls out the dagger he’d stashed there earlier, blade glinting dangerously in the lamplight as he raises it to his throat.

Closing his eyes, Jaskier inhales and goes to press, when a voice interrupts him.

“There’s a shortage of lovely voices in the world,” rings out from behind him, and oh, Jaskier knows that gruff tone. He whirls. “It would be a pity to damage yours.”

“Geralt,” he breathes, staring for a moment at the man lying on the bed, a sword laid beside him and still dressed in the same clothes – and they’ll definitely be discussing that later – but for now there’s nothing anyone could do to stop Jaskier flinging himself at the man, covering his face in as many kisses as possible before the man inevitably pushes him off. He doesn’t, but neither does he reciprocate, and both of those are concerning. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

He pulls back, those yellow eyes locking on his as he searches everywhere he can reach for any visible wounds.

“Gently,” Geralt notes, and Jaskier pushes up a little more, straddling the man but with elbows locked straight so he can look down in confusion.

“At a time like this that’s all you have to say?” he asks incredulously, perplexed when his search reveals no gaping cuts or other obvious wounds on his person. 

“Sorry,” Geralt grunts, looking up as Jaskier as if he were the light of the world. Jaskier preens a little bit at that, he did have some input into his own wedding outfit, thank you very much.

Even so, there are more pressing issues at hand. “Why can’t you move?”

Slowly, Geralt drags his hand up so it’s holding Jaskier’s wrist where it’s placed next to his head. “I can, a little,” he responds. “Healing potion still in effect. Not everything’s back yet.”

“Oh,” the younger man breathes, shifting off of Geralt’s hips to sit beside him, one hand still held at the wrist and the other softly tracing over the man’s jawline. A thought hits him then and he blanches. “I’ve made a mistake,” he confesses, dropping his gaze to Geralt’s chest. “I’m sorry. I got married, I didn’t have a choice.”

“You didn’t.”

Jaskier pauses, confused. “What?”

“You didn’t.” Geralt looks so convinced, and Jaskier desperately wants to agree with him.

He shakes his head. “I did. I was there. The priestess pronounced us ‘woman and groom’.”

“Did you say ‘I do’?”

At that, Jaskier’s head snaps up and he looks at Geralt, frowning. “Well, no,” he admits after a second. “We sort of skipped that part.”

“Then you’re not married,” Geralt says decisively. “If you didn’t say it, you didn’t do it. Wouldn’t you agree, your highness?” His eyes move to the side, and Jaskier follows his gaze, gasping a little when he sees Fringilla standing in the doorway.

“A technicality that will shortly be remedied,” she replies smoothly, the ever-present scowl on her face. “But first things first: to the death.” She pulls out her sword, stepping into the room fully.

“No.”

The princess tilts her head a little. “No?”

“No,” Geralt repeats, shifting a little, away from Jaskier who sits back, giving his partner room. He’s not sure what Geralt is planning, and despite the urge to protect him while he’s weak, Jaskier trusts him completely and lets him have the space he needs. “To the pain.”

Fringilla, about to charge, stops short. “I don’t think I’m quite familiar with that phrase.”

“Hmm,” Geralt responds tactfully. “I’ll explain. And I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand.”

The princess’ eyes flash at the comment. “That may be the first time in my life someone has dared insult me to my face,” she observes, expression more murderous than before. Jaskier fights the urge to quail under that gaze.

“It won’t be the last,” comes his partner’s quick retort. He pushes himself up into a seated position, leaning against the headboard of the bed. “To the pain means the first thing you lose will be your feet, below the ankles, then your hands at the wrists, next your nose.”

Fringilla shifts her stance, watching him carefully. With every threat, her frown grows more pronounced and her grip on the sword tightens. “And then my tongue, I suppose,” she supplies. “I killed you too quickly last time, a mistake I don’t mean to duplicate tonight.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Geralt says quietly before she can take a step forward. “The next thing you lose will be your left eye, followed by your right – “

“And then my ears, I understand, let’s get on with it,” she huffs, advancing a little before a shout stops her.

“Wrong!” 

The sword by his side is now grasped firmly in Geralt’s hand, and although Jaskier is watching the situation intensely and noting Fringilla’s composure crack a bit around the edges, he’s not sure how a blade is going to help if Geralt can’t even move. 

“Your ears you keep, and I’ll tell you why. It’s so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish – every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out ‘dear goddess, what is that _thing_?’ will echo in your perfect ears.”

Fringilla’s composure is well and truly cracked, now.

“That is what ‘to the pain’ means,” Geralt finishes, eyes sharp as he glares at the princess. “It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever for daring to fucking try and take Jaskier away from me.”

It’s quiet. Jaskier can only really hear the beat of his own heart as he stares, first at his partner who he’s never heard so blunt and volatile before – and Geralt is a naturally blunt and volatile man – before dragging his sights up to the princess, who’s obviously fuming and more than a little afraid but trying desperately to hold herself together.

“I think you’re bluffing.” There’s no tremor in her voice, or hands, but the widening of her eyes gives herself away. Jaskier is almost ashamed for ever having been afraid of her. 

Geralt hums. “It’s possible,” he muses. “Perhaps I’m only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again… he rises, and it’s slower than usual but with no less confidence or ease about his movements. The sword in his grasp lifts, and rises to point right at the princess’ chest.

Now, it’s Jaskier’s turn to grin.

Unblinking, Geralt stares down Fringilla. “Drop your sword.”

A heartbeat. Two.

To no one’s surprise, she does.

Geralt nods at one of the chairs behind her. “Sit down.”

Jaskier isn’t sure whether it’s cowardice, or just the stubborn will to live, but she does as she’s told, possibly for the first time in her life, spitting fire from her eyes as she goes.

“Tie him up,” Geralt tells Jaskier, who nods, still smiling. He’s not sure he’s even able to stop now.

He grabs the cords holding the bedcurtains in place, rushing over to the chair to tie the princess up. She glares at him, and just to be petty he makes the knots tighter than would usually be done.

“Why is it that you’ve been so talkative this last while?” Jaskier teases as he finishes tying the princess to the chair. He sticks his tongue out at her impishly before returning to rib his partner. “I swear, you never used to be this chatty.”

Geralt grunts. “Only when you’re in trouble.” He glances over his shoulder, answering Jaskier’s wide grin with a small smile of his own. “Don’t make it a habit.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that,” Jaskier quips, winking as the larger man sighs and looks out the window, leaning on his sword for support until Jaskier finishes his task and can be ushered over to the ledge.

As he reaches for Geralt to support him, take the weight off of the sword he’s balancing on, a noise at the door catches his attention and he whirls, ready to face whatever soldiers have arrived to aid their princess. 

Instead, it’s the woman from the boat, the one with the sword that she’s currently grasping the hilt of, other hand pressed against her stomach where a stain of blood has formed. In fact, her entire torso seems to be covered in it.

“Where’s Yennefer?” she asks before Jaskier can ask if she’s alright.

“I thought she was with you,” Geralt responds, and ah, that’s why she’s here.

“No,” the woman answers, looking a bit confused.

Geralt hums. “In that case – “ He’s not able to finish the sentence, his knees buckling. If Jaskier wasn’t there to catch him, he’d probably have gone hurtling to the floor. As it is, he’s heavy, and Jaskier isn’t sure how long he can continue to hold him up on his own.

“I knew it!” Fringilla yells, struggling under her bonds, composure fully broken and inflection scathing.

The woman shoots her a glare. “Shall I dispatch her for you?”

Geralt seems to consider this, before shaking his head. “No. I want her to live a long life with her cowardice.”

She doesn’t seem too pleased with the rebuttal, but accepts it for what it is and sheathes her sword, walking towards the window and slinging an arm over Geralt to take most of his weight.

“Renfri?” comes a voice, and Jaskier frowns, looking over the ledge and down into the courtyard below. A laugh escapes him before he can stop it, sending a wave to the dark-haired mage who’d also been one of his former kidnappers.

“She’s here!” he calls, glancing behind him. “And Geralt, too!”

Yennefer chuckles. “Hello, princeling!” She jerks her head behind her. “I found some horses! Fancy a ride?’

Jaskier grins. “If you’d be so kind!”

Behind him, Geralt shifts, taking a small step forward to place his hand on the shoulder nearest him. “Time to go, Jas,” he says softly, receiving a smile for his troubles.

“Wait!” Jaskier yells, slipping out of Geralt’s grip. “My lute!” Quickly, he dashes to grab it from the stand in the corner.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You always did love that thing more than you love me.”

“Not more,” Jaskier denies, bounding back to Geralt’s side and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as he’s helped up onto the window ledge, the instrument held securely in his hand. “Well, maybe a little.”

The woman – Renfri – shakes her head in amusement and offers a hand to Jaskier, helping him onto the ledge. Giving her a mock salute, he steps off the edge and falls downwards, white doublet shining in the relative dark of the courtyard, caught a second later by Yennefer’s magic.

By the window, Renfri and Geralt watch as the mage carefully lowers Jaskier to the ground, then helps him onto a horse.

“You know, it’s very strange,” Renfri starts, looking down at her friend and the prince laughing. “I’ve been in the revenge business for so long, now that it’s over, I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life.”

Geralt turns his head to look at her, this woman who’s remarkably surpassed every hardship thrown her way. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Have you ever considered being a bandit?” he asks, watching how she glances as him in confusion while helping him take his place on the ledge. “You’d make a great Butcher of Blaviken.”

Soon, all four of them are perched on their horses comfortably, Yennefer grinning as she leads them through the empty keep and into the fields beyond.

"What will we do with our lives now?" Jaskier asks, watching Yennefer and Renfri ride ahead of them.

Geralt smiles softly. "We'll see what happens."

"Hmm," Jaskier muses, tilting his head to the side in an imitation of his partner. "I have always wanted to be a bard."

"For as long as I've known you, little lark," Geralt rumbles from his mount. "But what does that leave me?"

"Oh, darling," comes the sweet sigh. "I need you to protect me from all the monsters."

________________________________________________________________________________

“They rode to freedom,” Vesemir reads, turning to the last page. “And as dawn arose, Geralt and Jaskier knew they were safe. A wave of love swept over them, and as they reached for each other…” he trails off, stopping and going to close the book.

“What?” Ciri demands, eyes bright. “What?”

Vesemir waves her off. “No, it’s kissing again. You don’t want to hear it.”

Sinking back down, Ciri is reminded of the other times she’s embarrassed herself today. If it gets her the end of the story, she’s willing to do it once more. “I… don’t mind so much,” she admits sheepishly, gesturing for the man to read on. 

He stares at her for a second, before looking back down at the book. “Fine.” He opens it fully again. “Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.” He closes the book carefully, looking up at the eager princess in her bed. “That’s the end. Now, I think you need to sleep.”

Ciri yawns at the mere thought. “Alright.”

Vesemir stands up, gathering himself to leave as the princess pulls her covers up to her chin.

“Vesemir?” she calls, before he makes it to the door. He stops, hand on the handle and turns to look at her. “Maybe you could come over and read it to me again tomorrow.”

The man watches her for a moment, then nods slightly.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick around for the epilogue - I promise it's worth it!


	16. Epilogue

Three days before her thirteenth nameday, Ciri hears that there are visitors for her, waiting in the hall. She stands up quickly, dropping her wooden sword.

“Hey, no fair!” Dara shouts, shooting up with his own wooden sword in hand. “Stregobor didn’t get to fight!”

“Renfri always wins, Dara!” Ciri shouts back, already lacing up her shoes.

The boy pouts, his familiar hat slouched on his head. “I never get to be Renfri.”

“That’s because Renfri is a princess,” Ciri explains, pulling on her other shoe and tying a bow. “And so am I. Now, are you coming or not?”

She races off towards the hall, her friend dashing along behind her, only a few of his grumbles making it to her ears in her haste to get to the great hall.

‘The Prince Bridegroom’ had long been her favourite story. She would read it late at night, or, when she couldn’t be bothered to do it herself, make Vesemir read it to her, or Mousesack if the gruff old man wasn’t available. Now, though, the prospect of new visitors is just enough to drag her away from her re-enactment.

A shout sounds from one of the corridors she races past, sounding suspiciously like her governess, but instead of stopping she picks up the pace, Dara struggling to keep up. The maid who’d brought the message hadn’t said anything about dressing formally, so if there’s a chance to stay in her trousers and simple shirt, then she’s going to take it.

“Wait up!” Dara shouts, sounding out of breath, and Ciri finally slows a little, deeming herself far enough away that her governess can’t catch her. Her friend hastens his speed and falls in just a yard shy, and together they round the final corner, rushing into the great hall and skidding to a halt to scan for the visitors.

It’s not decked out for any occasion, which is a good sign, and a quick glance around tells her that her grandmother isn’t in the room. Another good sign.

“There, look,” Dara says, pointing up to just in front of the dais.

She follows his gesture and inhales a little, seeing a grouping of five men standing and talking, seemingly at ease. Only two of them are unfamiliar.

Taking a step forward, Eist claps one of the new men on the back leaning in to say something before taking his leave and heading towards the doors at the end of the hall. Passing Ciri and Dara, he gives them a wink and waves at the four remaining men.

One, predictably, is Mousesack. He doesn’t much like greeting every guest to the royal palace, but as the resident magic-user he’s supposed to, to check for threats. There don’t seem to be any here, he’s even laughing.

To her surprise, Vesemir is there too. And Vesemir _hates_ greeting people.

The other two are the newcomers, and even though their backs are turned, Ciri gets a good look as she advances. They’re not too different in height, but definitely in stature. The shorter one, with brushed brown hair and pale skin, is bedecked in a blue doublet and trousers with gilt trimmings that seems a little too elaborate for her taste, is slimmer, shifting on his feet like he can’t stand still. His companion appears to be precisely the opposite, filling the space with broad shoulders and a firm stance. If she were to guess, he’s a trained fighter.

When she and Dara are about twenty yards away, Mousesack catches her eye and raises his voice enough for her to hear.

“Ah, here comes the princess now.”

The two men turn, and everything seems to freeze.

She knows them. 

They’ve never met, but still, Ciri _knows_ them. The cheery smile on the shorter one’s face, the piercing golden eyes of the taller – _she knows them_.

Dara bumps into her, and she realises she’s stopped, feet stuck to the floor as she just stares at her storybook heroes come to life.

“May I present the Princess Cirilla,” Mousesack introduces, and gestures towards the two men as they all approach. “These are – “

“She knows who they are, druid,” Vesemir interjects, and Ciri glances at him quickly before turning back to the two men, who are watching her curiously.

She doesn’t know which one to look at, eyes flicking between the two of them for a moment.

“You’re them,” she exhales eventually, in awe.

The shorter one smiles. “Are we?”

Ciri nods emphatically. “Geralt and Jaskier. You’re the ones in my stories.”

The taller one – Geralt – looks towards Vesemir with raised eyebrows. “You told her stories about us?”

The older man shrugs. “Someone had to.”

“Wait,” Ciri interrupts before they can go off on that tangent. “So all of the stories – with Renfri and Fringilla and the Fire Swamp and everything – they’re all true?”

The shorter man laughs, the sound musical. “Yes, dear heart,” he confirms, kneeling in front of her and placing a hand on her arm, blue eyes meeting hers. 

Geralt doesn’t come forward, but he smiles softly behind him. 

“They’re all true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINISHED! Wow, I'm really pleased that I managed to do that! Maybe now that it's done, I can stop thinking about it every five seconds! I will still go through and edit any mistakes and clean up any awkward bits!
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who read it and especially everyone who left comments and kudos - thank you so much for all your support!
> 
> I've really enjoyed writing again, so if anyone has any ideas for any stories that they want to read but don't want to write, send them my way here or on Tumblr, also with the username evanhart! I'd love to write more!
> 
> Anyways, thank you all so much again and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have!


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